


The Herald of Change

by Auriana Valoria (AuriV1)



Series: Metamorphosis: The Inquisitor's Saga [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Romance, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Denial of Feelings, Dragon Age II Spoilers, Dragon Age: Inquisition Spoilers, Dragon Age: Origins Spoilers, Drama, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Game Spoilers, Hawke Sided with Templars, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, Mage-Templar War, Mages and Templars, Minor canon divergence, POV Cullen Rutherford, Pre-Game(s), Sided with Templars, Slow Burn, Spoilers, Strangers to Lovers, alternate POV
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-11-18 23:59:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 82,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11301528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuriV1/pseuds/Auriana%20Valoria
Summary: -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------"So this is the herald of change. You are why everything must be moved ahead." ~ Knight-Captain Denam, Therinfal Redoubt, 9:41 DragonVerana-Kathryn Trevelyan initiated change in the lives of everyone around her, whether she intended to or not. This is the story of her rise to power in Thedas and her journey to find a true family.-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------* Written primarily from Cullen Rutherford's POV ; includes pre-game, main quest, DLCs, and post-game events. *





	1. Chapter 1

_Ostwick, the Free Marches; 9:21 Dragon_

Donovan Trevelyan’s pony puffed and trembled with exhaustion as he slid from its back, but the young man paid it no heed; only one thing mattered right now, and that was reaching his sister before anyone else did. Clad in a scarlet linen tunic emblazoned with the Sword of Mercy in golden thread, the black-haired lad dashed through the rainy streets of Ostwick, splashing through puddles without a care and thoroughly soaking his doeskin boots. Mud splattered up onto his leather breeches, the hood of his woolen cloak flying back as he ran and allowing the rain to plaster his bangs to his forehead. Yet despite the damp creeping through the soles and the icy droplets stinging his face, he charged on, sprinting as though a demon were on his heels, his breath coming out in ragged pants.

The estate gates were open but guarded. The old grizzled veteran stationed there recognized him, however, and let him pass without a word, knowing from Lady Trevelyan that her youngest son would be arriving any day now.

He burst through the front doors, immediately unclasping his cloak and dropping it to the floor, hopping up and down as he then quickly removed his soiled boots to prevent the wrath of his parents. Never for a moment was he still, however, and when he saw his mother moving towards him from the parlor, his only words were “Where is she?”

Knowing the reason for his haste, though slightly hurt at his lack of attention, Lady Trevelyan gave him a calm look and replied in her typically gentle and poised manner, “Upstairs, my son.”

Immediately, he dashed for the manor’s staircase, footfalls muffled by the thick crimson runner that carpeted the steps from top to bottom. Donovan sensed where his sister would be – the spacious expanse of their father’s study where they often played as younger children – and it was this room to which he headed, heedless of the soft padding of his mother’s slippered feet behind him as she wordlessly followed.

He finally saw her sitting with her legs tucked under her, wearing a plain blue dress that puddled about her on the floor, perched before their father’s blazing hearth in the middle of the study’s plush rug. The room was empty, save for her, her back to the door. Her long black hair, identical to their mother’s, spilled to her waist in meticulously-brushed waves, and was the one feature she shared with him. Unmoving, she stared vacantly into the flames of the hearth – unaware that her brother had just arrived from Markham – trying desperately to forget the knowledge that this home would not be hers for much longer.

“Verana?”

Donovan’s voice cracked as he spoke her name, and though he had just turned thirteen years of age, it was not from adolescence.

She turned suddenly, twisting backwards and glancing over her shoulder at him with sad purple eyes that were like glittering gems adorning her pale face. They were ocean-deep, like their father’s stern sapphire gaze, but tinged an exotic violet – likely by the Fade, now that they knew magic ran in her veins. Illuminated by the warm fire, they emanated a glowing melancholy at him, even as they widened in surprise and met his hazel stare, which was a mirror of their mother’s.

“Donovan?”

He rushed forward and slid onto his knees at her question, embracing his littlest sister tightly in a grip that was already strengthened by his Templar training. The seven-year-old girl, petite in stature, was already almost dwarfed by her older brother, her small arms wrapping about him with as much strength as she could muster. Lady Trevelyan stood outside the door, unwilling to intrude on this brief reunion, but well within earshot.

“They’re going to take me away,” his sister’s soft voice was muffled against his tunic, “Just like they did Dawn.”

“I know,” he answered solemnly, “I had to come back. I had to see you before they got here.”

She pushed off from him and glanced down at her palms, and after a moment of frowning, a spark danced between her fingers, illuminating both their faces for but a second before vanishing. Looking up at him, her gaze even sadder, she asked simply, “Why, Donny? Why me, too?”

Donovan went quiet, unable to form an answer quickly, and then replied stoically, “Maybe the Maker made it so.”

Verana looked down again, “Father says it’s a curse. Did the Maker curse Dawn? Did the Maker curse me? Why?”

“Some people call it a curse. But some people call it a gift, too,” Donovan said, recalling talk amongst his fellows in Markham.

Verana’s brow furrowed quizzically, “But if it’s a gift, then why do me and Dawn have to go away?”

Donovan sighed, “Because it’s dangerous. Some people think it’s bad, because it can hurt people if you aren’t careful. People are scared of it, too,” he tried to explain as best as he understood, “So you have to go where you can practice and be safe while you do it. And so you don’t hurt anyone by accident.”

She met his eyes, “I’m scared, Donny. I’m scared of it. I’m scared of leaving. I don’t want to go…”

He hugged her tight again, “I know, sis. But you have to. It’s the only way.” He held her at length and gave her his best encouraging smile, “I’m sure you’ll make friends at the Circle. There’s going to be nice people there. And you’ll be tutored by the city’s best mages. You’ll be able to learn so much…all the books you can read and then some! You’ll be just like them, a powerful mage someday!”

His smile pulled a small one from her in response. But then, heavy booted feet could be heard coming up the stairwell, and a flash of concern swept across Donovan’s face…

“Oh, no,” Verana’s voice trembled, “They’re here…”

At that moment, a deep voice could be heard asking, “Where is the girl, my lady?”

“Just in there,” came their mother’s voice, passive in response.

There was a rattle of metal, and two Templars came into view, one male, and one female. The taller male still wore his helmet, but the female’s countenance was bare, her carrot-orange hair plaited into a tight bun at the base of her neck. At the sight of the siblings, the two warriors paused, as if to gauge the situation. Then, nodding to his comrade, the helmed Templar made a beeline for Donovan, clapping his heavy hand on the young man’s shoulder and turning him away even as the woman made for Verana.

“A recruit, are you, lad?” he asked Donovan with a cheerful tone, armor glimmering in the firelight, “Where are you training?”

“Markham, Ser,” Donovan replied quietly, glancing back over his shoulder at the woman approaching his sister.

“I see,” the Templar mused aloud as he slowly walked Donovan out of the room and into the hall, passing Lady Trevelyan as they went, “And you came all this way by yourself to see your sister?”

“Yes,” Donovan replied simply.

He then felt a squeeze on his shoulder, “I understand. My brother is a mage, too.”

Meanwhile, the female Templar squatted in front of Verana, who was frozen with fear. The woman, whose pie-shaped countenance was spattered with freckles, gave her a lopsided smile. It was strangely warm and friendly, and her pale green eyes sparkled in the firelight as she spoke gently: “We’re here to take you to the Circle, young miss.”

Verana nodded, feeling oddly conflicted about this Templar before her.

“Have you your things packed?”

She nodded again.

“In your room, I take it?”

Verana gave a third nod.

“All right then, you’ll have to show me so I can carry it to the carriage for you.”

Verana slowly stood, brushed off her skirt, and headed out into the hall, stealing a glance to where the other Templar was walking with Donovan down the stairs…

It wasn’t long before Donovan saw Verana descending the stairwell behind the female Templar, who carried the girl’s small trunk in her hands. The look the woman cast her fellow spoke of relief that things were going as well as they were, and she gave Donovan a beaming smile as she passed by him, the butler opening the door as she approached. Lady Trevelyan followed Verana down the stairs like a silent wraith, clinging to the banister as she watched the scene before her. Verana paused beside Donovan, looking up at him for what she was sure would be the last time.

It was at that moment that he strode forward and took her in his arms once more, reassuring her with words that she would remember far longer than he expected:

“I love you, sis. Always will. I’ll always be your big brother. And if you ever need me, I’ll be there…just like that. No matter what.”

The tall Templar might as well have been an ornamental suit of armor, so still was he as he observed this parting. At last however, when they had hugged each other until they could hold one another no more, Donovan stepped back, silent tears streaming down his face, just as they did his sister’s. It was only then that the Templar eased himself between them, encouraging Verana to move through the doorway and into the rainy world beyond by becoming a physical barrier between her and the interior of the manor. He paused only once after, looking back towards Donovan, the shadows of his helm hiding his gaze.

“Maker walk with you, lad.”

Donovan’s face was solemn, “Maker guide my sister.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

Roland Trevelyan returned home that evening to find one member of the household gone and one returned to replace her, albeit temporarily. He tried to hide his distaste as he and his younger sister, Jocelyn, followed their father into the manor and was immediately greeted by the Templar-to-be. Donovan, two years younger than Roland, had been promised to the Chantry as soon as Roland was deemed healthy enough to be pronounced heir. As such, Jocelyn, the third eldest sibling, was the next in line following him. It was because of this issue of heirdom that their father had taken them to the council meeting that day, in an attempt to smooth ruffled feathers. Their parents had taken a great deal of time to negotiate arranged marriages amongst the other prominent families of Ostwick; this careful planning, however, had been dashed when first Dawn, and then Verana-Kathryn, was discovered to possess magical talents. All betrothals had been immediately called off for fear that future sons or daughters of Roland and Jocelyn would become mages, too.

Lady Trevelyan had been told to stay home to see off Verana to the Circle, and once she was gone, Roland hoped things would return to some semblance of normal. Dawn and Verana were blots on the family name and endangered his future sway over the other nobles of the city. This the fifteen-year-old was sure of, and he liked it not.

“Ah! Donovan!” their father boomed, clapping both hands on his second son’s shoulders, “Wonderful for you to come home to see us!”

Roland watched as Donovan looked up at their father, whose bold-featured, freckled countenance beamed down at him in return. Donovan’s face was unreadable, and he replied flatly, “I came home to see Verana, father.”

The Bann Trevelyan’s lopsided grin vanished back into his grizzled auburn beard, his dark sapphire eyes hardening at Donovan’s response. Roland’s brow rose as he looked sternly at his brother, his own face already a spitting image of his father’s, though his thick crop of hair was browner than the Bann’s. He wondered if their father would rebuke Donovan for such a reply, and some part of him secretly hoped that he would. No doubt his brother thought himself holier than the rest, now that he had begun his training as a Templar.

When the Bann pushed wordlessly past Donovan to greet his wife, Roland sneered at his brother, “Worried about her, were you?” Not waiting for a response, he added with head lifted, “I don’t see why. ‘For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water.’”

At Donovan’s sharp hazel glare and balled fist, Roland merely chuckled. The prat could do nothing to him…not with their father present. They both knew it.

Jocelyn stepped closer to the brothers, her features a softened version of Roland’s and mirroring the eldest sibling’s sneer as she added, “The only reason he knows that line is because he heard Sister Griselda reciting it while he was trying to get a better look at her bum.”

Two pairs of sapphire eyes stared back at one another for an uncomfortably long time before Lady Trevelyan called all three children into the dining hall for supper. They obeyed, but only because they feared the consequences from their father if they didn’t. If it were up to each of them, they would all be living in separate households already; Donovan was all too eager for the morrow to come, when he would begin the long journey back to Markham alone. He was beginning to think of his being given to the Chantry as more of a blessing than even his parents knew…

It was halfway through the meal before anyone spoke, and it was Lady Trevelyan who broke the silence once more, her voice a soft question, “Did you enjoy your time at the Council, today?”

“Yes, mother.”

“No.”

The contradicting replies came simultaneously, the first from Roland and the second from Jocelyn. Both parents looked at the children with brows raised, their mother’s expression one of surprise, whilst her husband’s was more of annoyance.

“Jocelyn doesn’t like upholding her duties,” Roland supplied casually.

His sister glared at him from across the table, “I don’t like being paraded around like a prize horse.”

“Jocelyn!” Lady Trevelyan reprimanded gently, sparing a glance towards her husband, who had set down his utensils and leaned back in his chair to observe his daughter’s responses. Leaning forward to pat Jocelyn’s hand reassuringly, Lady Trevelyan smiled, “No one is going to know about you if you hide behind closed doors all day.”

Jocelyn looked baffled, “Mother, why would I want any of those dim-witted simpletons to know about me?”

Roland snorted, “So you think you’re better than everyone else, then? Privileged enough you don’t have to do what everyone else has to do?”

“ _Roland_ ,” their father warned before turning to Jocelyn, “My dear, you must know that your mother and I are trying to secure a future for you. You must see and be seen in order to find proper suitors.”

“I don’t want suitors,” Jocelyn said flatly, sipping at her wine as if she weren’t arguing with her parents, but commoners.

“Too late,” Roland replied, “Ser Morelet and Lord Seigwar’s sons were eyeing you a lot today. They’ll probably talk to father tomorrow.”

“Funny you noticed,” Jocelyn sneered, “I would’ve thought you were too busy ogling Lady Annarah’s-”

“ _Jocelyn_!” both Lord and Lady Trevelyan exclaimed together.

Before they could add anything else, however, Jocelyn slammed her fist on the table, “It’s true! She’s a married woman, and Griselda’s a Chantry-devoted sister, and Roland keeps-”

“That has nothing to do with-”

“-and you act as though my wanting no part-”

“-that’s not-”

“-but he gets to do what he likes while I have to be sold to the highest bid-”

“ _Enough_!” Lord Trevelyan boomed, a heavy silence following. Lady Trevelyan looked down at her lap while her husband took a few breaths to calm himself before continuing, “Jocelyn Trevelyan…You either are too dense or refuse to realize your place as a member of this household. Your Maker-cursed sisters nearly jeopardized our standing in Ostwick, and since Donovan is a promised servant of Andraste, you and Roland are our only hope for the continuation of our family line! Maker preserve us if something were to happen to him, because all you are concerned with is your own selfish satisfaction!”

The heavy silence returned, and in the midst of it, Roland gave his sister a satisfied smirk, even as her own gaze filled with hot tears of emotion that she fought to keep bottled within.

Donovan, who had kept his peace throughout this increasingly-heated exchange despite the angry set of his jaw, fixed his gaze on the hearth, above which was mounted the Trevelyan coat of arms. The family motto was inscribed below the shield: _Modest in Temper, Bold in Deed_. If anyone was modest in temper amongst the siblings, it was Verana. Perhaps she would grow to be bold in deed as well. One thing was certain – Verana seemed to herald change…for good or for ill.

Without knowing exactly what drove him, he stood abruptly without excusing himself, striding past the elven serving woman who obediently waited by the doors to the dining room.

“Donovan, where are you going?” his father demanded.

“Back to Markham.”

He couldn’t stand it here. Not even for one night. He would negotiate with the stablemaster – trade his steed for a fresh one. There was an inn partway to Markham that was fairly cheap – he had a stipend from his trainer that would be sufficient for a half-night’s stay. It would be a rat-infested hole, no doubt, but anywhere was better than this gilded cage. Even the Circle.

As he retrieved his still-packed belongings from the bed in his room, he did not even say goodbye, the only thing he could focus upon being a line from the Chant he had heard before he departed the Circle tower:

“ _Heav'n filled with silence, then did I know all / And cross'd my heart with unbearable shame.”_


	2. Chapter 2

_Honnleath, Ferelden; 9:24 Dragon_

“ _Cullen_!”

A teenage girl ran as fast as her legs could carry her across the fields, the evening sun shining brilliantly in her long, golden hair, which trailed behind her in curly ribbons that bounced with every stride. Her breath came in and out in rapid pants as much from excitement as exertion, her linen skirt billowing wildly as she flew over the ground with reckless speed.

“ _Cullen_!”

Another mass of golden curls rose above the waist-high grass as a younger boy across the field stood up abruptly in answer to her calls. He turned around and squinted, raising one hand to shield his gaze from the intense sunlight as his other gripped a hammer, with which he had been repairing loose boards in the field’s old wooden fence.

“What is it, Mia?” he called back, though he had a feeling she couldn’t answer in full until she reached him.

He watched her as she sprinted towards him. Two years his senior, his sister Mia was tall and gangly, already having lost most of her child-like facial features in favor of an increasingly-bold bone structure. Stronger than most of the girls her age, in both body and wit, Mia was very nearly intimidating, even to her brothers; that, coupled with her lack of typical beauty, leant her a tomboyish air despite the length of her meticulously-cared-for hair.

At last, she reached him, her feet pounding the dirt as she slowed herself and then halted, leaning on the fence for support while she caught her breath. She couldn’t help but grin as she glanced sideways at her brother, a glint of mischief in her doe-brown eyes.

“Knight…Captain…talking with mother…and father…” she huffed out. “Had to tell you.”

Cullen very nearly dropped the hammer he was holding onto his foot. His amber eyes went wide as his grip slackened, and then he caught himself, hooking the tool back onto his belt before replying incredulously, “What? Are you…?”

She chuckled, “Yes, silly…I’m serious. I wouldn’t tease you, brother, not about this. I know how much you want to be a Templar. It’s why I had to come and tell you now instead of waiting until after supper.”

“Is he…is he talking about me?”

Mia shook her head, “I don’t know. I didn’t stay to find out. But I think your Templar friends have been talking to him…why else would he speak with mother and father?”

Cullen leaned backwards against the fence, looking up at the sky for a long time before replying, “Do you think they’ll let me go? If he’s talking about recruiting me?”

Mia leaned back on the fence beside him and gave him a serious look, “They have to. They can’t just let this pass. It’s all but landed right in your lap…to keep you from this…” she shook her head again, her expression stern, “I won’t ever forgive them if they don’t let you go.”

Cullen was silent for a while, the only sound the soft breeze rustling through the tall grass. Mia had always been his biggest supporter, ever since he had declared his intention to become a Templar when he was eight – five years ago. She had made encouraging him a priority, insisting that the rest of his family humor his wishes, though why he wasn’t exactly certain. Mia was fiercely protective of him, even as she teased him mercilessly and trounced him at chess nine times out of ten. She seemed unable to stand the thoughts of his dreams being dashed, and she worked tirelessly to try and make them come true.

He remembered that she had been ecstatic when Honnleath’s Templars actually humored his relentless pestering and began to teach him the art of swordplay. He had caught on surprisingly quickly, and it soon began apparent that he needed more intensive training than just a spar or two during the Templars’ downtime; there was only so much that they could teach him – particularly without Chantry approval…

“ _Cullen! Mia!”_

Their parents’ calls suddenly rang out over the field, breaking him out of his reverie, and the two siblings immediately dashed forth in response.

“Coming!” they answered together, quickly picking up speed as they ran.

Before long, their modest home came into view – a charming farmhouse with a thatched roof and lazy smoke rising from the chimney. No doubt supper was ready to be served, judging from the mouth-watering aroma that pulled at the siblings as they dashed up to the front step and ducked inside.

“There they are!” their mother exclaimed, deftly dodging seven-year-old Rosalie as she skirted around the dinner table with her hot pot in hand, “Mia, could you get the bread from the oven, dear?”

“Yes, mother.”

Cullen’s father – a mountain of a man with a pleasant smile set in his weathered countenance – clapped his heavy hand on his second child’s shoulders, “Did you get the fence fixed, lad?”

“Yes, ser,” Cullen nodded, “No loose boards left.”

“Good, good,” his father took his seat at the table with a groan and a wince as his joints protested the movement, “Maybe it’ll last another year before we have to start rebuilding it.”

“I hope so,” his mother replied, ladling hot stew into the bowl that sat before Branson. The eleven-year-old wrinkled his nose at the _absurd_ amount of vegetables swimming in the broth, and their mother elbowed him in the shoulder, “Don’t give me that, Branson. You eat up.”

“Yes, mother.”

Mia arrived with the freshly-baked bread just as their mother finished serving everyone’s bowl; once she filled her own, she returned the pot to the fire and sat down with a sigh, a half smile on her face. Cullen tried not to look expectantly at his parents, instead focusing on the steaming food in front of him. He felt it best not to say anything at all to them, in case they were displeased with the Knight-Captain’s visit. If whatever the visit was about was important, they would tell him…

The entire family devoured their meal in contented silence, famished and exhausted after a hard day’s work. There was no need for conversation to feel a familial bond between them; it was as if an invisible thread bound them all together. Despite their occasional personality clashes, the Rutherford family was tightly-knit, and outside of the occasional scant harvests, they had little real problems.

They cleaned up their meal in equal silence, and their mother shooed them off to bed early. It was then that Cullen knew something was up – they always shooed off the children when they needed to talk privately. The siblings slept upstairs, across from their parents’ room, their beds side-by-side against the back wall of the house. Once they made sure Rosalie and Branson were tucked in, Cullen and Mia exchanged looks and then glanced at the door.

“You think they’re going to talk about…?” Cullen asked, trailing off his inquiry as he suddenly heard his parents’ voices grow louder.

“I think so,” Mia whispered with a nod, jerking her head towards the door.

The two of them pressed into the door, their ears against the wood, and their parents’ conversation suddenly became surprisingly audible…

“…can’t believe it. They actually wrote him?”

“Something must have told them he’d be worth the risk. They must see something in him worthwhile or they never would have bothered.”

“Either that or they’re desperate for him to leave them alone.”

Cullen heard his father chuckle softly, “I don’t think that’s it, dear. Cullen’s got talent with a blade; that much is obvious. I watched him a few times when he was practicing with Ser Anselm. And I could tell that Anselm was awfully pleased. They’re proud of him, as am I.”

“Oh, I don’t mean to suggest I’m not…it’s just…”

“I know. You’re afraid for him.”

His mother sighed, “The path of a Templar isn’t exactly the safest. To imagine my son facing violent maleficarum and…Maker, what about demons?”

“You know Cullen. He’s dreamed of battling evil since he learned to read. Perhaps the Maker has called him to this, and if so, who are we to deny him?”

“Yes, but your shoulders and knees are getting worse every year, we’d be sending him off with only Branson to help you with-”

“No. I’m not going to be an obstacle to my boy. I’ll deal with whatever the Maker throws at me, just as I know Cullen will endure whatever tests the Maker has in store for him.”

“So you’re going to let him go, just like that?”

There was a heavy sigh, “No, not just like that. But I can’t in good conscience keep him from this when it is so deeply ingrained in every fibre of his being. Have you seen him in sparring matches? Just the prospect – the _chance_ – of his dreams coming true brings him joy I can’t describe…joy that’s etched on his face. Every lesson gives him hope. I can’t dash those hopes, crush those dreams, hold back my son from a life of happiness because _I’m_ afraid for his future. Can you?”

A long silence followed.

“No.”

It was at that moment that Cullen and Mia backed away from the door, sharing glances again. The latter grinned widely at her brother, whose face bore an expression of sheer wonder.

“I’m…I’m going to be a Templar.”

His words were a mixture of both surprise and confirmation.

Mia hugged him tightly, “Yes. Yes you are.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

Cullen was so excited that night that he barely slept. For hours he lay, staring into the shadows of the ceiling above, imagining what would happen on the morrow. He knew he couldn’t show his enthusiasm, however, as that would indicate to his parents that he had overheard their conversation. Besides, they still hadn’t officially said yes, yet. He sobered himself with that thought; no matter what he had heard, they could change their minds. It was this thought that he kept in the back of his head even as he rose at dawn, pulling on his clothes and heading downstairs to begin his morning chores.

It was not long after he and his siblings had awoken, beginning to help their mother around the house, when a rapid knock came upon their door. Everyone immediately halted in their tracks, the children glancing to their parents questioningly.

It was then their father gestured to Cullen, “Open the door, son.”

Immediately, he obeyed, pulling the door wide. There, framed by the doorway, stood the Knight-Captain himself, winged helm tucked under one arm, looking down at the boy who answered his knock. Illuminated by the morning sun, the Templar’s armor nearly blinded Cullen as he looked back, fighting to keep his jaw from dropping open.

“You must be Cullen,” the Knight-Captain greeted him with a wide smile, “I have heard much about you, young man.”

The boy swallowed, “You have, ser?”

The Captain chuckled lightly, “Yes, I have. Rumor has it you want to join the Templar Order, is that correct?”

Cullen took a breath to calm his nerves, then answered with lifted chin, “Yes, ser.”

The Knight-Captain seemed amused by the boy’s confident reply, “Tell me…why, exactly, do you wish to join our ranks?”

Cullen had been waiting for this question his whole life.

“Because good people are needed to keep evil at bay. I want to do good things. I want to help people. The Templars do that…and I want to be a part of it. I want to protect others and do honor to my family and the Maker.”

A wry smile tugged at the Knight-Captain’s lips, and he placed a gauntleted hand atop Cullen’s head, “Good lad.”

After a moment, he drew back and added, “If you truly wish to join the Templar Order, to devote your life to the service of the Maker and the Maker’s children, then you may. I have already spoken with your parents, and they have given their consent. There are a few things which I must do before I depart Honnleath, so you have some time to yourself to say your goodbyes. Meet me at the Chantry before the sun peaks in the sky, and I will take you with me to begin your training. Bring nothing with you but the clothes you wear now, as from this moment forth, your faith shall provide for you. You understand, yes?”

Cullen nodded solemnly.

“Good.” The Knight-Captain then looked past the boy to his parents, giving a slight bow, “Thank you, and Maker be with you all.”

With that, the Templar turned and slowly walked towards the main village, leaving Cullen to stare after him for a moment. At last, though, he closed the door and looked back to see his siblings gaping at him, slack-jawed. He glimpsed tears shining in his mother’s eyes, though she turned around quickly in hopes of hiding them. His father, too, seemed to busy himself with the fireplace, not meeting his gaze.

Glancing to his older sister, he noticed that Mia’s countenance was etched with an expression of triumph, and a grin slowly spread across her face, “Cullen’s gonna be a Templar now!”

Their father chuckled, though the sound did not seem mirthful in the least, “That he is, Mia.”

“But he’s going away,” Rosalie said dejectedly, looking utterly heartbroken as she glanced first to Cullen and then back to their parents, her hazel eyes shining with sadness.

“Maybe he’ll come back soon,” Branson piped up hopefully, “He could stay at the Chantry, like Ser Anselm.”

“But he’s _old_. Does that mean Cullen has to be old when he comes back, too?”

To his great surprise, a cloud of oppressive melancholy had suddenly fallen over the Rutherford household…something that Cullen had never expected would happen. His parents quietly continued to go about their business, saying nothing while his younger siblings fussed and fretted over his departure. Pressed with a sudden need to get away from this terribly mournful atmosphere, he turned on his heel and headed out the door, subconsciously going straight to the one place that seemed to give him peace whenever he was troubled.

So heavy were his thoughts that he didn’t even realize where his feet were taking him until his soft shoes hit wood, and he found himself standing on the short pier of a lake in the middle of a clearing, the green forest all about him. It was not far from his home, just a short jaunt into the adjacent woods. He frequently came here when the antics of his siblings became too much to bear and he needed a few moments to himself.

The crisp morning air was filled with the soft sound of distant birdsong, and the water before him was still and smooth as glass, reflecting the thick canopy around him, through which filtered thin rays of golden light. Mist clung to the waters, floating lazily above the mirroring surface like the eerie breath of some mythic beast. A strange feeling settled over him, as though he was standing on the brink of some precipice, about to tumble over the edge…

Suddenly, he heard footsteps crunching the leaves behind him, and he turned to see Branson headed towards him, caution in his step. He hadn’t expected anyone to pursue him, and so he was more than a little surprised to see his brother emerge from the copse.

“Hey,” the younger boy finally said, a half-smile flickering across his face.

“Hey,” Cullen replied back, unsure of what else to say.

Branson shoved his hands deep into his pockets, looking down at the ground as he meandered to his older brother’s side. Cullen watched him, knowing that if he had followed him all the way out here, then something must have been on his mind. The younger lad was uncharacteristically solemn, the bangs of his messy, tawny brown hair falling into his face as his jade eyes fixed on the placid waters of the lake. For the longest time, he merely stood there, seemingly gathering his thoughts, and Cullen didn’t press him.

“So you’re really leaving?” Branson finally asked, not meeting his elder brother’s gaze.

Cullen was silent for several moments before replying, “Yes.”

Branson then looked up at him and made an odd face as one hand fished around in a pocket before withdrawing a shining silver coin. He glanced at it, then proffered it to Cullen. “Here,” he said, “Take it.”

Cullen’s brow furrowed as he hesitantly took the coin, turning it over in his hands, “Why? What for?”

Branson gave him a broad grin, “It’s lucky! You might need it.”

Cullen regarded the coin for a long moment, a small smile pulling at his lips before he slipped it into his own pocket for safekeeping. Then, putting an arm around his younger brother’s shoulders, he answered quietly, “Thanks, Branson.”

This day, and perhaps this very moment, would alter the course of his life forever. He could not foresee the magnitude of the changes that were coming, changes for which he would not be prepared; they would alter the very face of Thedas itself, and he, with his idealistic hopes of making life better for the innocent, would be caught in the middle for much of his adult life.

Standing there with his brother on the pier, amidst the peace of the forest, hours away from fulfilling his childhood dream, Cullen did not know that this was the last time he would witness his family whole and well.


	3. Chapter 3

_Ostwick Circle of Magi, the Free Marches; 9:26 Dragon_

 “Apprentice Trevelyan? You have a visitor.”

The Templar at the door spoke with a rather bored tone, the sound hollow in his helmet as he curtly nodded to Donovan to let him know he could proceed into the room beyond. Donovan’s own helm tucked under his arm, he smoothed his messy shock of hair back from his face and tentatively peeked into the small study.

He had not seen his sister in five long years, and she had grown so much since then; no longer a mere girl of eight, she was now a young teen. She sat at a small, oak desk that faced the stone wall, scribbling away notes on a piece of parchment as she held a massive tome open with her other hand. He noticed that her hair was now maintained at shoulder-length rather than falling to her waist. She wore it in a loose ponytail, raven-black bangs framing her pale face, which rarely saw sun. Halfway between childhood and adulthood, she had a petite and relatively light frame, making her silky, pale blue apprentice robes appear a tad too big for her. Her feet, garbed in matching satin slippers, were crossed and tucked under her chair, and her long sleeves were rolled up to keep them from falling into the wet ink as she wrote.

She glanced up upon hearing the Templar’s voice and footsteps in the room. At first, she frowned, her brow furrowed with slight irritation upon being interrupted. But when she recognized Donovan, her blue-violet eyes widened, and her swan-feather quill plopped messily onto her notes as her mouth dropped open in disbelief.

“ _Donny!_ ”

Verana sprang from her chair and raced into her brother’s outstretched arms, throwing her own about his neck and hugging him fiercely. She laughed and cried at the same time, and he found that tears were springing in his own eyes, too, as he squeezed her just as tightly.

“I’ve missed you so much, Donny.”

“I missed you too, Verana.”

They embraced each other long and hard before Donovan finally pushed back from her a bit and smiled sheepishly at her, “Sorry I missed your birthday. I promise you, if I could have come on that day, I would have.”

She smiled back gently, “Don’t worry about it. You still surprised me. Better late than never, right?”

Neither of them noticed the Templar outside closing the door until it softly clicked shut, at which Donovan started a bit, but Verana seemed unsurprised. Pulling back from Donovan, she sniffed quietly and half-smiled, jerking her thumb at the door. “That’s Ser Tomas. He’s a bit grumpy sometimes, but he’s actually really nice. He just likes his quiet…that’s why he’s stationed around me most of the time.” She gestured to a chair wedged between a tall bookshelf and her desk, “Come on and have a seat.”

Donovan chuckled at her words, following her and sitting down at the chair. Setting his helm on the one patch of bare desktop, he then asked tentatively, “So…you haven’t had any trouble…you know…” he gestured at his uniform.

Verana looked away momentarily, thinking, and then shrugged as she, too, sat, “Not really. There was that time a recruit thought it would be funny to push me down the library stairs.” She frowned, then pulled the hem of her robes up to her knee and pointed at a pale, jagged scar on her left kneecap. “I didn’t see him again after that.” She then smiled up at him, “No, the Templars aren’t bad here. They mostly just leave us alone so long as we leave them alone.” She leaned close and whispered, “Sometimes I get Ser Tomas to get books off of shelves I can’t reach. He complains a lot, but he never says no.”

Donovan chuckled, briefly wondering if someday he would have apprentices asking him to reach books on high shelves back at Markham. It was certainly an amusing notion, and he resolved that if that was as much difficulty as he would have as a Templar, he would be perfectly satisfied fetching books for the rest of his life.

They chattered away for an hour or two after that, mostly light talk about their new friends, or fascinating things they had learned over the years, or sharing stories about funny moments they had had during their early training, when they were first starting on their current paths. Ultimately, though, Donovan asked, “Your Harrowing will be coming in a few years, right? Your tutoring should be preparing you for it. How are your lessons going?”

She sighed heavily, glancing at the clutter atop the desk, “Boring really. We’re not allowed to practice casting spells all the time, of course. Only with a bunch of other mages present and watching us. Mostly we study. Maybe mix some potions from time to time…something I’m not too great at.” Her cheeks reddened a bit, and she looked over the haphazardly piled books around her, “I have an examination tomorrow. ‘Denizens of the Fade and their Weaknesses.’”

Donovan smirked, “That sounds positively abysmal.”

She shrugged again, “Not really. Just…intense.” Then, frowning, she asked, “What about your training?”

He paused, not really expecting her to ask about him. He had just been fully initiated as a Knight-Templar only a few months previous. Dare he tell her about the ceremony? The vigil and the initiation? And after that, the first taste of lyrium draught on his lips? His mind wandered as he recalled the moment, and if he concentrated hard enough, he could still hear that mystical song, whispering in his blood…

“It’s over,” he finally said with a half-smile, “I’m officially ‘Ser Donovan,’ now.”

Her face broke out into a wide grin, “I _thought_ so! You’ve got the armor after all.” She looked him up and down as if seeing him for the first time.

“So I do,” he chuckled, “Still getting used to it.”

“It suits you,” she said cheerfully, tapping his pauldron, “I’m sure mother and father would be proud.”

At that, his mirthful smile faded, “Yes…I’m sure.”

“Have you…have you heard anything from them?” she asked, her amethyst gaze suddenly distant.

His brow furrowed, “Yes…mother writes every month or so.”

“Oh?” her own brow rose, “I haven’t gotten anything.”

Donovan’s jaw dropped, “Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

He felt his heart plummet into his stomach. Five years and not a word from her own parents. All this time he had thought she was getting the same letters he was. Now he knew that she truly was alone all this time, and it made him sick. No wonder she had reacted the way she had when she first saw him. It was the first time she had had contact from any family member in five years.

Five. Damned. Years.

He sighed forcefully to keep the tears of emotion in his eyes from spilling out. Rising to his feet, he paced around the room to keep from punching something. Verana seemed confused at this sudden change in behavior and she asked quietly, “Donovan…are you all right?”

“I can’t believe it. They didn’t tell you anything? Didn’t ask you anything? Didn’t care enough to even see if you were still alive?”

Her face was solemn, “I’m a mage, Donny.”

He shook his head, a snarl on his lips. Communication between himself and Verana was naturally limited by restrictions of the Circle and the Order…but her own parents? They were the Banns of the same damned town the Circle was in, for Andraste’s sake. They could have just _walked_ into the place and asked to see her without issue…

“Then I guess you don’t know about Jocelyn, then,” he threw his hands in the air in frustration.

“Jocelyn?” Verana’s expression shifted first to one of surprise, and then to one of concern, “What about her? Is she all right?”

He shook his head again and shrugged, “Maker only knows. She ran away about a year after you left. Father arranged a marriage with Lord Seigwar’s eldest son and Jocelyn was vocal about it, as you might imagine. Roland lost his temper, as usual, and threw mother’s Tevinter porcelain vase at her. It shattered and bloodied her face – she ran from the estate and has been missing ever since. My guess?” he looked at the floor, studying the cracks between the stones, “She went to the Chantry, got cleaned up, and then bought or begged her way out of town. She may be a cloistered sister in another city, now. Or she could be dead, for all we know.”

“Father doesn’t care?”

Donovan snorted disgustedly, “Father only cares if you’re the good little child. The perfect Trevelyan.”

Verana’s brow furrowed, and her eyes darkened, “Is that why they haven’t written me? Not just because I’m a mage…because I’m imperfect?” She looked visibly distressed now, and her voice became thick with emotion, “Because Dawn and I ruined the family’s blood?”

“The family blood was already ‘ruined,’ if mages make blood impure,” Donovan crossed his arms atop his breastplate, “Someone somewhere in the family was a mage if you and Dawn inherited it. And don’t think Father doesn’t know. He’s blamed mother.”

“ _What?!_ ”

Donovan chuckled, but the sound was not a mirthful one, “Yes…Mother found a way to sneak that one in her letters to me. He blames her for it all. She fears he wants to go to the Revered Mother and ask for an annulment to their marriage. He thinks some magic in her side of the family is what started all this…what broke the family apart.”

He watched her as she looked away, and he hoped that his words assured her that she didn’t cause all of this…that the breakup of the family wasn’t her fault. Or Dawn’s. Or even Jocelyn’s. He moved closer to her, putting a hand on her slender shoulder and squeezing, “Honestly, I’m glad I’m not a part of it anymore. No matter the troubles in Markham, they pale in comparison to the turmoil at home. And at least here, in the Circle, you aren’t a part of it either. You’re safe from it.”

She swallowed forcefully to suppress her emotions, “But Roland gets everything. He has all of the rest of us gone, now, just like he always wanted. And if Father divorces Mother, then it will be just the two of them.”

“Let them have it all,” Donovan remarked bitterly, “If it means so much. If the Bannship is more important. If the Trevelyan name is not a family but a title…and a title for an elite few at that.”

“But, Donovan,” she glanced up at him, her eyes glittering in the candlelight, “This…this isn’t how it’s supposed to be…”

Her look broke his heart. He felt tears stinging his own eyes again, and he leaned down to wrap her up in his arms, “I know, Verana. I know.”

He held her as she sobbed into his armored shoulder, mourning the loss of a family she never knew. And Donovan, too, mourned, feeling just the same as she. It was as if the rest of their siblings and even their parents were already dead. Both of them were severed from the Trevelyans, just for two different reasons, and neither of them would be able to claim any connections to the family…not ever. Both were expected to serve the Chantry and the Circle for the rest of their days…sacrifice their entire being to a greater good. But that greater good was, more than anything else, a preservation of the ideal family name. A name they could no longer possess, but yet still had to uphold…

Seeing the shortness of the candle and knowing his time with her was growing short, he knelt, taking both her hands in his and gripping them tightly to hold her attention. He implored her with urgency in his voice, seized by a sudden fervor, “Listen to me, Verana, and listen well. I will _never_ forget about you. I will always think of you and pray for you every day. I will pray that the Maker gives you the knowledge and strength to pass your Harrowing…that he guides you and drives you and grants you all the inspiration you need to grow in power and wisdom and control. And I will pray with all my might that you, my little sister, will show the world that a Trevelyan mage is worth more than a dozen of Father and Roland. The Templars may prevent me from sending you messages, but they cannot erase you from my thoughts. You may be a mage, but you are also my sister, and no matter how emotionless they wish me to be towards my charges, I refuse to reduce you to nothingness.” He squeezed her hands, “Be strong, Verana. Stronger than all the rest. Stronger than Father, stronger than Roland…stronger than me. And if, Maker forbid, you ever need me,” his hazel eyes were blazing, “I will know. And nothing in the world will be able to stop me from reaching you. From protecting you. As an elder brother should.”

Verana bowed her head to hide the fresh tears streaming down her face, “And…I won’t forget you, either, Donny. I will pray for you, too. That the Templars don’t make you too hard. That you will find solace in your duty. That you will be happy.” Her eyes met his, “Please…be careful. You might fight demons and apostates, maybe even blood mages, and…please, Donovan, just be careful. There are so many tricks and temptations out there…”

“I know,” he replied solemnly, “And heed your own advice, sister. Your will is strong, but you mustn’t be overconfident. You are much more vulnerable than I. Never forget that.”

“I won’t,” she nodded, in her tone a promise. After a few moments, she added quietly, “You…you have to go now, don’t you?”

He glanced away, swallowing. “Yes, Verana.” He didn’t want to elaborate on just how much he had to beg and plead with his superiors for just a few hours with his sister.

Verana then slid from her chair onto the floor, still gripped by her hands, and she asked softly, “You know Benedictions, right?”

“Of course,” he replied, knowing the popular passage she likely had in mind quite well.

“Pray with me?” she asked, almost shyly.

He nodded, and they both bowed their heads:

“ _Blessed are they who stand before_  
_The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter._  
 _Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just._

 _Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow.  
In their blood the Maker's will is written._ ”

There was a small moment of silence before they both punctuated the prayer with “So let it be.”

He pulled her to her feet and stepped back, “Let’s just hope that neither of our blood will be used as ink, eh, sister?”

He was pleased when that elicited a small smile from her. He couldn’t leave her on such a serious note. He hoped that between his own words and the prayer they shared that she would be granted the courage to face the future, whatever that might be.

“I don’t know when I’ll be able to see you again, but,” he paused, “I _will_ see you again. I promise you.”

She smiled softly once more, and he knew she understood, “I believe it, Donny. I believe it.”

He left without saying goodbye. Because goodbyes were endings, and he was certain that this was just the start of something new for both of them…


	4. Chapter 4

_Kirkwall Gallows, the Free Marches; 9:34 Dragon_

Five years.

Five years since he had been knighted a Templar of the Chantry…since he had achieved his boyhood dream.

Five short years since he had first tasted lyrium.

Cullen sat on the edge of his bed, staring intently at the empty vial in his hand – his daily dose of the lyrium draught that gave him the strength to leash rogue mages and castigate demons with his very will. Or did it merely lengthen the duration of the initiation rites that still lingered within him, satisfying the lustful song of the raw, primal power that had been seared into his flesh and even now pulsed in his veins?

On that day, he became a Templar. He rejoiced with all the rest, at first. But now, what once gave him assurance in his duty felt like a noose slowly – ever so slowly – tightening around his neck. He was not even certain why he felt that way about it, now; he hadn’t in the beginning. Lyrium, as most Templars understood it, was what made them what they were. Without it, Templars were all but powerless against demons and mages alike – that which they were intended to oppose since the Order’s inception.

But with the lyrium came much more than just resistance to magic…

It took great discipline to manage the hunger – the perilous price for the power to protect innocents from the most dangerous threats in Thedas. Many Templars fell to temptation as they aged, unable to control their desire for more lyrium any longer. Some of this craving originated from a yearning for a strength that was not innate to humankind, only granted by the special draught they consumed in a daily ritual. Some of it came from a longing to hear that mysterious song in the back of their minds again and again, captivated by the humming chords they could not completely understand. More simply, some of it was merely to stave off the weakness that came from not having it.

And some of it, he knew, came from fear. Fear of what would happen if caught unprepared, against which lyrium served as a shield. He understood that fear. He had experienced it firsthand – that primal fear of having one’s will, one’s self, one’s very soul stripped from their being.

He ran a hand through his short-cropped curls and shuddered involuntarily as he was plunged headlong into memories he had pushed back behind a wall for three years. It was like a dam that was threatening to burst, and all he had to do was close his eyes and he was there again…

He had been fooled by the mages in Ferelden. Their mostly-benign natures had lured him into complacency. Many followed First Enchanter Irving’s example, including the sweet Amell girl, who had managed to befriend him in a way. They were both young, almost the same age, both with an eagerness for learning and a desire to do good for the world. She had passed her Harrowing with flying colors, and it seemed Greagoir would assign her to be his charge afterwards. He did not complain, thinking that watching her would be easy…perhaps in more ways than one.

When Uldred overthrew the Ferelden Circle, many mages died…many more became abominations, revenants and arcane horrors, and she fell with them. And the demons used _her_ against him, trying to break him by using his emotions against him. He was trapped, tortured, taunted, _tempted_ by _her_ face. He had trusted her, trusted them all, and that trust was betrayed. He was a fool…they were _all_ fools…

He knew there were survivors, and he had begged the Grey Wardens that came to the tower to kill them. They couldn’t be trusted. None of them could be trusted. The possibilities were endless – they could be possessed, their bodies taken by more demons, or they could have been part of the coup to begin with and gathering strength in their sanctum. He cared not that they wore the faces of men and women he knew. The only way the rest of Ferelden could be safe was if they died.

But the Wardens ignored his words.

Knight-Commander Greagoir sent him away to recover, to heal his wounded spirit as well as his body. But he knew he would never trust a mage again. They could not be treated as normal people. They were bottled destruction – disaster waiting to happen. One slip, and hundreds could suffer. He could not make the same mistake he made before by letting them get close to him…by letting his guard down. Too many lives depended on the vigilance of the Templars. He had learned that lesson the hard way.

Upon his return to serve in the Circle, Greagoir officially transferred him to Kirkwall, to permanently get him away from the place that had caused him so much physical and emotional trauma. There, he met Knight-Commander Meredith and was quickly promoted to the rank of Knight-Captain when she witnessed his zeal and loyalty to the Order. Meredith understood what happened at Kinloch Hold and why, and she vowed no such repeat of events at the Gallows. He took comfort in such a vow, and with her confidence, he felt as though he had a new chance to prove his worth as a Templar.

Kirkwall’s mages were more vocal than those in Kinloch – that was something he learned fairly quickly. They were also more rebellious, straining against their metaphorical chains, and Cullen feared that First Enchanter Orsino was behind much of it, as he frequently had public disputes with the Knight-Commander. The more the mages fought, spurred by a desire for change, the more restrictions Meredith imposed, and so the situation was quickly transforming into a downward spiral towards inevitable disaster. Yes, the mages had to be controlled and watched carefully, but he knew that if Meredith was not careful, she would cause more harm than good, and her vow would be useless…

It did not help matters that local apostate mages had been involved in a plot a few years previous to corrupt the Templars by subjecting their inexperienced recruits to demonic possession. This turn of events was something that had shaken him to the core – shook him even now as he reminisced upon it. He wondered why Orsino had not publically denounced these terrible actions, but the First Enchanter was mysteriously silent; this just made Meredith more suspicious of him and the Gallows Circle as a whole, and her already iron grip tightened all the more. And Cullen himself had placed many new Templar recruits under constant supervision for months, even a year, just in case…

As if that was not enough to make the tensions between Templars and mages in Kirkwall more passionate, there were the qunari. After years of being harbored in the city, the qunari Arishok became incensed with the way the city was managed and eventually mounted an attack on the Viscount’s Keep. Meredith and Orsino were forced to put aside their differences for the sake of Kirkwall, and for once, it seemed as if the two might see eye-to-eye. Yet, despite the two’s involvement in the rescue of the people, they were not the ones who faced down the Arishok and ended the conflict once and for all. That was done by a young apostate mage named Ainsleigh Hawke.

The name “Hawke” was not a new one to his ears. He had heard of Ainsleigh’s success with the Red Iron mercenaries, and her brother, Carver, had even joined the Order as a recruit. Cullen had suspected Ainsleigh’s magehood from the moment he had met her, yet she had taken care not to demonstrate magical abilities with Templars present, and so he had no solid proof to use against her. Her comrades guarded her well, and that, on top of her significant restraint, made her almost invisible to the scrutiny of the Templars until the moment she rose up to save them all. Her skill in remaining hidden from the eyes of even Meredith made him uneasy, and he was unsure of her; there was a great possibility she posed a threat to them all, despite her actions to the contrary.

Yet, she stood toe-to-toe with the Arishok in a one-on-one duel in the Viscount’s Keep and defeated him, using her formidable magic to defend the city and its people. That gave even Meredith pause, and to Cullen’s great surprise, once the fight was over, she willingly named Ainsleigh the new Champion of Kirkwall – a refugee apostate from Ferelden. The Knight-Commander was willing to overlook Ainsleigh’s apostate status for the service she had done for the city, and it was understood from that moment on that the Templars were to leave her be. And despite his lingering wariness of her, Cullen recognized and appreciated her brave deeds.

Unfortunately, Ainsleigh was unable to save the Viscount from the Arishok’s wrath, and his son had been murdered not long before. Thus, Kirkwall was left both rulerless and heirless. Meredith immediately filled that vacancy herself, naming herself stewardess of the city – a move that he thought less-than-wise so soon after the Viscount’s death. This, of course, caused Orsino to publically condemn her actions, and the mages and mage supporters were now regularly demonstrating in the streets, despite the suppressive efforts of both the Knight-Commander and Grand Cleric Elthina. On top of that, Meredith and Orsino seemed to see the Champion as a potential ally in their endless conflict, and he had frequently glimpsed the leaders speaking with Ainsleigh on separate occasions. Cullen did not converse with her much, but from what little he knew of her, he suspected that Hawke did not wholeheartedly support Meredith. However, curiously enough, neither did she seem to fully trust Orsino, despite his being a fellow mage.

It was a position he found himself understanding, as he, too, was caught in the middle of the political scheming in Kirkwall. As the years rolled by, he became more and more uncertain about his Commander’s judgment. This latest move of hers seemed more like a means of obtaining greater power over the Circle than it was an attempt to restore order, no matter what Meredith told him. And now, rumors were circulating throughout the Gallows that the Rite of Tranquility was being performed on mages who had shown no signs of dangerous behavior, at Meredith’s direct order...

There were also a growing number of Templars who were openly questioning Meredith’s actions. So much so that he could not ignore the complaints that were piling onto his desk every week.

He stared at the bright blue drops of lyrium still lingering in the glass vial in his hand, and his brow furrowed. He could not help but feel that something was being kept from him…that communications were being lost somewhere. He had initially dismissed the rumors of Meredith’s increasing paranoia about blood magic as baseless accusations. But now…

He absentmindedly turned the vial over and over in his hand, his amber gaze focusing on the far wall as he delved deeper into his thoughts. It was true that Orsino was not particularly active in discouraging blood magic and aiding in the hunt for the offenders in Kirkwall – the number of which was disturbingly high, if the reports from Guard Captain Aveline were accurate. But it was also true that Meredith was searching high and low for something to act upon, and it seemed more and more that if she could not root out blood magic where she thought it was, then she was willing to create a problem where none existed. This would do nothing but damage the relations between the mages, the Templars, and the general public…this he knew. He believed in watching mages and protecting the populace, but he did _not_ believe in punishing the innocent. That was not what a Templar was. That was not what _he_ was.

And yet, any time he managed to work current events or dealings with the mages into a conversation with the Knight-Commander, it was conveniently cut off or turned in a different direction, after which he would be summarily dismissed from her office. Meredith was always brusque, but he could not help but feel that she was purposefully keeping him in the dark. There was something else in those cold, cobalt eyes of hers besides conviction, and it was unnerving. More than once, he felt as though serpents were crawling up his back anytime he spoke with her, lately, and he was uncertain of whether it was her or merely his growing suspicions about her obsession with blood magic.

Either way, something had changed, he was sure of it.

Glancing to his desk, he felt a sudden urge to write Mia. The last time he had sent her a letter was long after the Blight was over…after he had found out that his siblings had fled to South Reach.

After he found out that his mother and father had not made it out of Honnleath alive.

Mia had told him that they had died fighting, buying their children time to flee the darkspawn. He remembered feeling numb after reading her letter, wishing he had been there to fight alongside them…to help them somehow. Guilt consumed him, and he felt selfish for drowning in his own sorrows after the Circle incident. He was certain that, had he been there, he might have been able to save his parents. For two years after that, he sent large portions of his earnings to Mia to help support his brother and sisters after they relocated to South Reach. Eventually, though, she told him to stop, as they had found means of supporting themselves, and she did not wish them to be a burden upon him any longer. He reluctantly did as requested, and communications between them had since become less and less frequent.

He sighed heavily, putting the vial back into the kit on his lap and closing the wooden box with a definitive _click_. Rising, he moved to the sliver of a window in his quarters and peeked through the thick glass at the world beyond – the high walls of the Gallows, past which was the harbor and the docks of Kirkwall. Somewhere out there was the Champion, likely still doing her part to clean up the city. Even if she was an apostate, she used her magic to help people, and he could respect that. He only hoped that he wasn’t wrong about her, as he had been before.

Even after all he had been through – after all the conclusions he had come to and the vow he had made to never trust another mage – he began to think that she was the only person in the entire city with their priorities in order.


	5. Chapter 5

_Kirkwall, the Free Marches; 9:37 Dragon_

Cullen felt the explosion before he saw it.

He was on a patrol in Hightown when a sudden deep rumble vibrated through the ground, causing many walking citizens to stumble mid step. Glancing around, he wondered what could cause such an abrupt tremor – surely not an earthquake?

And then came a flash of red that illuminated the whole district in a malevolent glow, and the hairs stood up on the back of his neck. Whirling around, he looked all about him, frantically searching for the source. At last, he found it, and he felt his jaw drop.

“ _Maker_ …”

His voice was a whisper of utter disbelief as his gaze lifted upwards, and he saw the Kirkwall Chantry being ripped apart by an unknown energy, the whole building steadily dismantled and then blown forcefully apart with rays of blinding scarlet power – magic of a kind he had never seen before, not even in Ferelden. His lyrium-laced blood boiled in his veins as a maelstrom swirled violently above, throwing chunks of debris as large as some of Hightown’s manors upon the city, which crushed anything they hit…

Instinctively shrugging his shield onto his arm, he ducked beneath it just as a fist-sized, jagged chunk of granite sailed straight for his head. The shock of the impact nearly broke his arm, and he staggered backwards before recovering his balance. It was then that a section of the bell tower tumbled dangerously overhead, raining deadly shards of broken glass in an arc above and crashing into an estate, reducing it to nothing but rubble in mere seconds. Screams of fear blended with screams of pain and tore through the air so frequently they became one solid sound, echoing around the stone walls in a never-ending wail.

Then came the surge. People rushed past him in a sea of bodies, stampeding through the streets and running for cover. Friends were torn apart from each other, children ripped from their parents’ hands. He was spurred into action when he glimpsed a young girl, no more than eight years old, standing still in the midst of the torrent and frantically looking for her mother, oblivious to the racing merchant’s cart that threatened to run her down. Dashing forth, he shoved fleeing citizens aside and scooped up the girl in his arms just in time, the wide-eyed merchant pushing the cart never even seeming to see either him or the girl he had nearly hit.

The girl herself was dazed and unresponsive, but the mother of the child fought her way to him, having realized almost immediately that her daughter was lost in the crowd. She had tears streaming down her face as she took the girl from him, “Maker bless you, Ser! Bless you!”

“Get to the Viscount’s Keep! You’ll be safe there!” he shouted over the din. It was the only place he knew of nearby that could withstand the falling debris and guard against whatever had caused the explosion to begin with…

Still the citizens fled, a seemingly endless stream. People were being knocked down and trampled, limbs broken. Those hit by debris were unconscious, some dead. Some carried the injured to safety, others just ignored them, preferring to save themselves. Roofs were catching fire, and the acrid smell of smoke mixed with blood and sweat and…

Whispers flooded his mind, flashes of Kinloch swimming before his eyes, his heart racing as he clenched the fist of his shield arm and reached for his sword with the other, limbs trembling with adrenaline. Gritting his teeth, he forced the visions back, locking his gaze on the way to Lowtown as something pulled him there like a magnet…

He did not have to go far before he caught sight of a Templar racing for him, bloody sword in hand.

“Knight-Captain! The Chantry…an apostate destroyed it! The Knight-Commander has invoked the Right of Annulment!”

He stopped in his tracks, eyes wide, “What?”

“She said the Circle is to be destroyed! The Champion is with her!”

For a moment, time seemed to stop as he slowly absorbed the information; the Champion was supporting Meredith in Annulling the Circle? An apostate was…?

He shook his head back and forth to clear it. There was no time to think about these things. Pressing forward, he gestured for the knight to follow, “With me, Templar! Where is the Commander?”

“Heading for the Gallows with the Champion…Orsino is ahead of her and is going to rally the mages in the Circle’s defense!”

They ran forth, armor clanking, heading deeper into Lowtown and making for the Docks. It was not long before they saw a group of recruits nursing their wounds against the outer wall of the Hanged Man. The Templar at his side elaborated, “These men were wounded when Orsino’s comrades turned on them…there’s abominations and demons about, Captain.”

“Stay with them and direct any of our fellows who aren’t wounded to the Gallows,” Cullen ordered.

“Yes, ser!”

At that, he made his way towards the Docks, surviving Templars joining him as he went. The abominations and demons the other Templar had mentioned were already slain by the Champion and Meredith, but he was certain that there would be more ahead, and he could feel the hairs rising on the back of his neck again, chills running up and down his spine.

It was Kinloch Hold all over again.

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By the time the ferry reached the dock at the Gallows, Meredith’s entourage and Hawke and her companions were already there. He caught up with his small cabal of Templars in tow just as Orsino finished speaking heatedly with Meredith, the First Enchanter whirling around angrily and heading into the Gallows proper. The Knight-Commander caught sight of him and smiled grimly, moving towards him and greeting him with a somber tone, “Captain…it is good to see you still live.”

“And you, Commander,” he replied, noting that she seemed unharmed. “I gathered those I could to meet you here.”

“That is wise,” she answered, pulling him aside as she glanced over her shoulder to see Hawke speaking with her comrades. Meredith walked with him to the opposite side of the courtyard and lowered her voice as she explained, “We are about to mount our attack on the Circle. As soon as everyone is ready, we will end this once and for all. After,” she looked back to Hawke and then at him again, “I want you to arrest the Champion. I cannot trust that she has not been involved in this disaster – the murder of Elthina and countless innocents. She harbored the culprit amongst her companions, and we cannot trust that she has not played a key role, regardless of her unusual choices this day.”

Cullen met Meredith’s cobalt-blue eyes and found only coldness there, boring into his soul and leaving an icy mark. A strange sensation fell over him, alarms ringing in his mind, and he fought the distinct urge to shudder involuntarily.

Something was wrong.

However, he did not reply with anything but a nod of understanding, and she smiled at him again. “Prepare yourself, Cullen,” she added, “This will be far too much like what you have experienced before. Take care that you do not lose your wits.”

His face was expressionless, “I shall not.”

With that, Meredith turned on her heel and marched towards Hawke, who had just finished speaking with her companions – including those whom he knew to be the Tevinter elf, Fenris, City Guard Captain Aveline Hendyr, Prince of Starkhaven Sebastian Vael, the dwarven author Varric Tethras, and Hawke’s own brother, Carver. They were a formidable lot, and would no doubt be invaluable in the fight ahead…

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

The initial assault was bloody, and resulted in the deaths of many mages and several Templars as Orsino retreated farther into the Gallows. Hawke, with her titian hair flying and silvery eyes blazing, fought with no less vigor than the warriors around her, struggling to keep as many of her allies around her alive as possible. He feared his men turning on her in the heat of battle, but to his great relief, they did not, even allowing her to heal them when she could spare the time and energy.

Once they broke through the entrance to the Gallows proper and cleared the area of maleficarum and demons, a gaggle of mages suddenly ran forward and fell at their feet, groveling on their knees before Hawke and the Templars.

“Mercy! We beg you!” they implored, nearly prostrate on the ground, “We surrender…please, don’t kill us! Do what you will, but please let us live!”

“Kill them,” Meredith ordered flatly, ignoring their cries for clemency. “They cannot be spared. This Circle is beyond redemption.”

“Wait,” Cullen stepped forward, causing all eyes to latch onto him. Glancing between the Knight-Commander and Hawke, he met Meredith’s gaze fearlessly, even as it narrowed at him in return. Cullen’s brows furrowed at her, “Surely the Right does not require-”

“It requires my order and nothing more!  You will do as I command!” Meredith snapped sharply, attempting to leave no room for questioning.

Cullen remained facing the Commander, but he could see out of the corner of his eye that the mages were nearly hysterical, begging Hawke to come to their defense, “Champion! Please…”

Ainsleigh, taking a deep breath as she first looked to the mages before her and then to Cullen, finally spoke. “I want to hear what the Knight-Captain has to say.”

He hesitated, unsure if Meredith would grant him the opportunity or if she would cut him off again. When she did naught but offer a cold glare in response, he continued, speaking mostly to Hawke, since Meredith was unwilling to listen: “Even at Kinloch Hold – in a situation much worse than what we face here – we managed to save some of the mages left alive in the tower. The Right of Annulment does not mean the total annihilation of every mage – only those who continue to pose a threat and are beyond salvation. The same rules apply here.”

Meredith sighed forcefully, her irritation obvious, “Your objection is noted, Captain, but we cannot afford to be sympathetic with Kirkwall’s Chantry destroyed and the Grand Cleric murdered! Blood magic is rampant in this city and I _will_ ensure that it is stamped out.”

“But we have not witnessed these mages utilize it, not even in self-defense,” Cullen protested firmly, “We could escort them away from here, put them under watch…”

Meredith raised a critical brow at him, “And if they escape while feigning innocence? Are you willing to take that responsibility on your shoulders, Captain?”

“Yes,” he answered without hesitation, “I believe that is part of what being a Templar is about.”

Meredith scoffed, “And _I_ believe it is our duty to protect the people…we must be judges, jailors, and even executioners, if need be.”

At these words, Hawke seemed perturbed. She narrowed her own pale eyes at Meredith and cocked her head curiously, smoothing back a sweaty lock of rose-blond hair that had escaped from her ponytail, “I thought we were here to prevent the situation from escalating…not destroy anything and everything in our way. I may not be a Circle mage, but I know what the Right of Annulment entails, and it does not always merit total obliteration, as the Knight-Captain has said.”

It was then that Cullen caught Hawke’s gaze and offered her the smallest of approving smiles. Glancing between two of the Templars under his command, he ordered, “Listen to the Champion. Guide these mages to someplace safe and keep an eye on them, but do not harm them unless they attempt to harm you first. Is that understood?”

They nodded, their voices muffled in their helms, “Yes, ser.”

“Carver, secure the area and let us know when we can proceed from this position.”

Hawke’s brother saluted, “At once, Captain.”

Meredith cast Cullen a long look while his men did as he commanded, and he felt that strange sensation again…that feeling of electricity dancing across his skin and snakes crawling up his back. He schooled his expression and did not allow her the pleasure of thinking he was intimidated by her. And, in truth, he was not. Meredith was going too far with the Right – he knew it and Hawke knew it – and he would do everything in his power to prevent her from overstepping her bounds. It was a little-known part of his privileges as Knight-Captain to be able to keep his Commander in check, especially when he thought her decisions were being made from emotion and not reason. He had never thought such an action necessary before, but now...

…now, as she stared back at him with an almost wild look in her eyes, he was starting to think Thrask had been right about her all along.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

Orsino was dead. It was over.

He claimed to have never used blood magic before in his life, but he had slain his most loyal comrades to perform a rite so heinous it was almost indescribable. He became a golem of dead flesh, hideous and terrible to behold, knowing he was to die, but wishing to take as many Templars with him as possible.

The battle was long and kept them all on their toes, but thanks to their careful strategies and Hawke’s aid, the only death in that fight was Orsino’s.

Cullen had thought Ainsleigh might have hesitated in killing the First Enchanter, but after she discovered that Orsino had known about Quentin – the deranged mage who had slain her mother in an attempt to cobble together his lost love – and had covered up his actions to avoid Meredith’s attention, there was no sympathy left in the apostate. That and, after Orsino transformed, the choice was ultimately taken from her. She showed no remorse, no regret, and Cullen felt as though something in the Champion had changed. Perhaps forever. Gone was her usual humorous demeanor, which always seemed to be present, even before battle.

Or, perhaps, this was the true Ainsleigh, and the biting wit and dry humor were merely part of a mask she had lost the will to wear.

She was quiet as they emerged back into the Gallows courtyard, only a handful of mages now remaining. Cullen was grim as he realized that the only reason there were any survivors at all was because of Hawke and him. Meredith would have gladly razed the entire Gallows to the ground if it were possible. This fact disturbed him greatly. He had always known his Commander to be a strict, even harsh one. But this was beyond anything he had witnessed from her before – she seemed almost gleeful with the deaths around her, and that made him suspicious of her sanity…

Most of the Templars who had remained in the courtyard were tending their wounds or gathering the dead. He had almost forgotten that Meredith wanted Hawke arrested when she slowly turned around to speak with the Champion herself. The other Templars who accompanied them rushed forward to greet comrades or help with treatment, but Cullen remained nearby and within earshot. Curious as to whether or not the Knight-Commander would want to go through with her earlier decision, he listened carefully to Meredith’s words and watched for any signals.

But then he wondered…would he really go through with her order? He saw Carver out of the corner of his eye; the young Templar remained near his sister, the closest they had been in years, in both body and spirit. Carver seemed concerned when Meredith began addressing Ainsleigh, as if wondering what more the Commander would demand from the Champion this night.

“…even this battle is not yet over.”

He had mostly tuned out Meredith’s well-rehearsed justifications for her actions, but this phrase set his nerves on edge. There was something about the _way_ she said it…

Hawke and her companions must have sensed it, too. Expressions of suspicion and even worry flashed across their faces. Carver in particular looked grave, his brow furrowing at the Commander.

“I am beginning to wonder how much you had to do with all of this, Champion,” Meredith continued. “After all, the apostate who destroyed the Chantry to begin with was one of your companions…one whom you harbored and protected for years…an abomination you knew about, and yet did _nothing_ to stop…”

Those Templars who weren’t too injured to move slowly ambled nearer, taking note of Meredith’s words. Cullen knew most were merely curious, but the remainder could be spoiling for a fight. He cast them all a sharp warning look, and they stopped in their tracks.

Hawke’s face was like stone as she listened to Meredith go on, “And what about you? You are an accomplished mage. That we have seen with our own eyes. You are also an apostate, just like Anders. How do we know that you won’t become just as much a danger to Kirkwall as he? Especially when you took such great pains to hide him from us?”

Ainsleigh’s lips thinned, and her abrupt gestures betrayed her ire, “I didn’t take ‘great pains’ to hide anyone. If you didn’t find him, it was because your Templars weren’t looking hard enough. I also knew nothing of his plans for the Chantry. You are seeing threats where there are none.”

Meredith chuckled, shaking her head as if disappointed, “Everything about you is so predictable, Champion. Even your lies.” She backed up a step, “I know you are beloved amongst the people of Kirkwall, however, and I will make sure that you are remembered fondly. I will tell them that you died in battle against Orsino…for a righteous cause…”

There was a ripple amongst the Templars – a shudder of steel that betrayed the surprise hidden behind darkened helms. Cullen himself was alarmed by Meredith’s suggestion, and he felt that he could no longer stay silent.

“Knight-Commander,” he stepped closer, his voice firm, “I thought we were to _arrest_ the Champion, not kill her.”

“You _will_ do as I command, Cullen,” Meredith hissed, her eyes narrowing at him again. “Stop making excuses and-”

“No!” An unbridled rage boiled inside him, and he pointed at her angrily. “I defended you when Thrask started whispering that you were mad, but this is too far!”

With blinding speed, Meredith unexpectedly unsheathed her sword and leveled it at him, the point only inches away from his heart, “ _I will_ not _tolerate insubordination! We_ must _stay true to our path!”_

The blade flared scarlet, and Cullen’s eyes widened in surprise as he held his hands aloft. He knew what Meredith’s sword looked like, and this was not it. Even in the battle with Orsino, it had not looked like this. Now, however, it glowed an eerie red, reflecting off of Meredith’s armor with a menacing light that matched the cold ferocity of her gaze.

“Andraste’s dimpled buttcheeks!” Varric swore.

“Pure lyrium,” Meredith’s voice was tinged with awe and menace as she stroked the edge of her sword reverently, “The dwarf charged a great deal for his prize…”

“It took Bartrand’s mind, in the end,” Hawke murmured, her tone almost fearful. And suddenly, Cullen _understood_.

“He was weak,” Meredith hissed, “Whereas _I_ am not!” Then, she suddenly pointed the humming blade at Hawke, commanding to the Templars around her, “All of you! _I want her dead!_ ”

“ _Enough!”_ Cullen roared, tired of this madness, “This is _not_ what the Order stands for! Knight-Commander, step _down_! I relieve you of your command!”

Meredith’s eyes suddenly went wide, and she whispered in disbelief, “My own Knight-Captain…lost to the influence of blood magic…”

She whirled around, waving her sword wildly, “You _all_ are! You’re all weak! Allowing the mages to control your minds! To turn you against me! But I don’t need any of you…” she stepped towards Hawke, “I will finish this myself!”

“Then you’ll have to go through me!”

Carver forcefully wedged himself between Meredith and his sister, greatsword at the ready and rage in his eyes.

Cullen, too, drew his own blade and stood side-by-side with Carver, their backs together and their weapons forward to form a shield for the Champion, “And me!”

“ _Traitors!_ ” Meredith cried, “I’ll have _both_ your heads!”

The other Templars, confused as to whose side to take and unwilling to get in the way of Meredith’s awful weapon, began backing away fearfully, taking refuge in the side alcoves. Some of them retreated back into the Gallows proper with the more heavily injured. Hawke’s companions immediately spread out to get a better advantage, knowing a fight was imminent; the Champion herself readied her staff, and Cullen could feel her gathering her magic. He could only wonder how much more they could take. They were already exhausted from the fight with first the resistant mages and then Orsino’s blood magic. Meredith herself, however, seemed tireless, and her apparent madness only made her all the stronger…

“ _Blessed are those who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and_ do _…_ not _…_ falter _!”_

Meredith recited the well-known line from the Canticle of Benedictions as the eerie red glow of her blade spread outwards from the edges like a beacon. Then, suddenly, before Cullen could even fall into a proper defensive stance, she pounced, her blade whistling through the air straight at his face.

At first, he was not even aware he’d been hit, it happened so quickly. He had just managed to reflexively jerk backwards in time to avoid the full brunt of Meredith’s strike. But then the throbbing, burning, stinging sensation alerted him to the fact he’d been struck straight in the mouth, vertically sliced from his upper lip to his cheek by the very tip of the blade. It bled profusely, blood trickling down his face and dripping from his chin. This he ignored, however, quickly shrugging his shield onto his arm while Carver intercepted a follow-up blow from Meredith with his own greatsword. The strength of the Commander’s blow staggered the younger Hawke sibling, and Cullen realized that she would truly have no qualms about killing both him and Carver to get at the Champion.

He ducked and dodged a sideways arc, then lunged for Meredith’s vulnerable flank, but she followed up so quickly that he was forced to dive and roll while Carver parried her strike again, crying out upon impact from the force. Cullen then swiped at her leg, but this she dodged as well, moving with unnatural speed. His mind spun with possible strategies as he frantically searched for a weakness; she was good, but he had no idea she was _this_ good.

It was then that Fenris and Aveline took the heat from the Templars, allowing them to retreat with Hawke to a more defensible position. In the interim, the Champion rained a storm of frost upon Meredith to try and freeze her in place; Hawke now utilized only offensive spells, knowing that the quicker she brought Meredith down, the less healing she would have to do later. And yet, despite the intensity of the ice storm that Hawke brought upon the Knight-Commander’s head, causing hoarfrost to spread across her body, it did not slow her down one bit. She was immune to the effects of the magic entirely.

Cullen and Carver both watched as Fenris and Aveline worked in tandem as they had for years together, and yet both seasoned warriors were taken aback by Meredith’s empowerment. Each second seemed to pass like hours as a dozen strikes were exchanged so quickly that it was one solid sound ringing across the stone courtyard. Out of the corner of his eye, Cullen saw Sebastian and Varric clambering for a position to rain deadly arrows in the Commander’s direction, and yet there was the dilemma that they might hit either Fenris or Aveline in the process.

Hawke, too, was struggling to find an opening. Fenris and Aveline knew this, and they attempted to work around Meredith in opposite directions, forcing her to turn her back to Hawke and the archers. The elf’s strength was failing quickly, as he was not able to keep up with the sheer speed of Meredith’s blows. Meanwhile, Aveline’s shield was close to breaking, a definitive crack spreading along its surface. With each blocked strike, the guard captain’s arm went slacker and slacker until it hung limply at her side and the shield slipped from it. Aveline staggered backwards, raising her sword to parry an incoming overhand strike from Meredith…

…and that was when Donnic charged in. Cullen had not even noticed the guardsman join the ranks of the Templars who had come to the Gallows. His angry bellow echoed across the courtyard as he stopped Meredith’s blow with unprecedented strength.

“You’ll not have my wife, you crazy bitch!”

While she was occupied, Fenris’s blade, too, came screaming at Meredith from behind, tearing all the armor from her right arm with the force of the stroke. Taking it as a cue to back out, Aveline scrambled to the sidelines to recover, taking shelter behind a column. Just as Meredith spun around to retaliate at Fenris, Sebastian and Varric let loose a volley, two arrows and three bolts suddenly peppering the vulnerable spot in her lower back between her cuirass and skirt. As she stumbled, Cullen heard Hawke snarl from behind him, and she unleashing three quick bolts of pure frost magic that blasted into Meredith and propelled her onto her hands and knees.

“Maker!” Meredith gasped, her eyes glowing red and veins of scarlet spreading across her armor from the blade, “Your humble servant begs you for the strength to defeat this evil!”

Cullen had not anticipated what happened next. Defying her body’s obvious exhaustion, Meredith propelled herself to her feet and then into the air, leaping at least twenty feet backwards and landing on the balcony above them. With a cry, she plunged her sword between the gaps in the stones, red light flaring outwards and slamming into first the two Templars and the Champion, and then Sebastian and Varric nearby. They were all thrown from the steps and into the courtyard in a clattering heap, sliding as they hit. Now _they_ were the ones scrambling to their feet as Donnic helped a weakened Fenris out of the fight, dragging the elf over to Aveline’s side.

Cullen, Carver, Ainsleigh, Sebastian, and Varric all stood back-to-back, frantically glancing around as the magic from Meredith’s sword bounced all around them, illuminating their armor and weapons in a wicked ruby glow. It reached one of the multi-armed, two-faced statues of Andraste flanking the Gallows entrance and, to their horror, made the bronze effigy come to life in a roar of red.

“Maker, preserve us!” Sebastian prayed, blue eyes wide with disbelief.

“Distract it until I can bring it down!” Hawke shouted, flames swirling around her staff and forearms.

“Easier said than done, Chuckles!” Varric replied, although he leveled Bianca at the statue regardless.

Meredith seemed to be empowering the statue, animating it with her willpower and the strength of the lyrium in her blade, but she was unreachable – a force field of red surrounded her, forcing them to focus their attention on the figure while she rested. Her sword, whatever kind of lyrium it was, gave her a terrible advantage over them all, granting her strength and stamina no human possessed. As they charged at the animated statue, dodging flailing giant limbs armed with two swords and a hammer, Cullen began to fear that this fight might be one they could not win…

Of a sudden, a gigantic firestorm erupted around the bronze statue, blasting one of the arms from the effigy and melting the head of the hammer to its body. Meanwhile, Carver seemed to be throwing himself into a leg in an attempt to overbalance it and topple it over. Thinking this idea might work, Cullen dashed forth and did the same, ducking under a whistling sword blade as he did so and slamming into the statue with all his strength. Sebastian and Varric, too, abandoned their useless distraction and ran forward, shoving into the statue until, at last, it fell.

“Get away from it!” Hawke cried as soon as it was down.

As they scrambled away, she unleashed another explosion of fiery magic, disabling the statue by blowing it apart. Yet, as soon as this threat was ended, more appeared; Meredith empowered the second statue of Andraste, and Cullen’s eyes widened in horror as the scarlet power advanced down the columns, animating the bronze sculptures of the Tevinter slaves.

“Damn her!” Carver cursed, “Will this not end?”

Hawke downed a lyrium draught and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, pale eyes alight with fury as she tossed the bottle upon the ground where it shattered in a shower of fragile glass. Cullen had never seen her this angry before, and it was almost disconcerting to witness. Yet never for a moment did she lose control, despite the rage that contorted her face. Together, they brought down the statues in a similar manner to the first.  Having rested for a bit and downed healing potions while behind the cover of the columns, Aveline, Fenris, and Donnic were back into the fray, plus two more faces that Cullen did not recognize – an elven rogue and a Grey Warden archer. It seemed that more allies were emboldened enough to join the fight, realizing that if they did not assist, then Meredith might truly win the day…and Maker only knew what would happen after that.

When the final statue fell, the Commander herself returned to the battle, and Cullen could not believe she still stood. Yet, now, her entire body glowed with the red light, her eyes solid scarlet in their sockets and pulsing with power. Desperate for the battle to end, they all converged on her at once. Yet, even so, she was quick enough and strong enough to parry at least half the blows that rained upon her. Cullen dodged and weaved to avoid that terrible blade, making strikes where he could in the most vulnerable areas he could reach. His blade pierced flesh again and again, and yet the blood drawn only seemed to fuel her. Sweat poured down his face, stinging his eyes even as he tried to blink it away and burning as it trickled into the cut on his lip…

At last, Hawke’s magic seemed to be taking effect. The light in Meredith’s sword began to dim, and the exhausted comrades retreated one-by-one as they saw the Champion gaining control over the fight. The Knight-Commander staggered backwards with each successive fireball from Ainsleigh’s staff.

“I…will not…be defeated!” Meredith raved, gasping for breath even as she raised her blade high, “Maker! Aid your humble-”

She never finished her sentence. Of a sudden, the lyrium blade flared bright white and shattered, sending shards flying across the courtyard, whistling dangerously past everyone’s heads as they reflexively ducked. Meredith screamed, an unearthly howl escaping her lips as her body was suddenly seized by red power, crackling around her and bringing her to her knees. On and on she screamed in horror as the scarlet magic took her, consuming her in roaring red until her whole form glowed solid with it and her limbs began to crumble. On her knees, face turned towards the sky and mouth gaping in fear and pain, she was rooted to the spot as she was transformed into stone right before their very eyes.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Cullen’s breath came out in ragged pants. Fatigue slowly taking over his adrenaline-fueled body, he dropped his blade to the cobbles with a loud clatter, his limbs throbbing and weak. Sebastian caught Hawke in his arms and eased her to the ground as she finally collapsed with exhaustion. As the companions gathered around the Champion, sharing what potions remained between them, Aveline proffered one in his direction, but he shook his head. “No,” his voice trembled with weariness. He thought of so many who were dead and dying from the Chantry destruction, and he added “Save it…for someone who needs it…more than I.”

At that moment, he noticed the surviving Templars coming out of hiding. They gathered in a thick circle around them all, looking expectantly at him. One rushed over to inspect Meredith and, finding that the Commander was nothing but solid crystal, glanced in his direction and slowly shook her helmed head.

Then, he realized – with Meredith dead, he was now the de-facto Knight-Commander. They were looking to him for guidance on what to do next. Awaiting their orders.

As if fearing what might come next, Ainsleigh forced herself to her feet with Sebastian and Fenris’s aid, meeting Cullen’s gaze with her own pale one. She did not smile, nor did she seem angry, but rather looked at him with expectation, wondering what he would do now.

As he looked back at her, he knew that the city needed a leader. Meredith was no longer steward, and he refused to inherit her role – one that the Templars never should have possessed to begin with. No, Kirkwall needed someone outside the Order who cared about the city, and who put the lives of the citizens before themselves. Officially, that person could not take the throne without the support of the Templars, but that was something he _was_ willing to offer.

He knelt, head bowed, hoping that the others would understand and follow his lead.

Carver knelt next. Then, one by one, the rest followed, until the whole courtyard of Templars was kneeling before Hawke.

“Champion, the Templar Order is with you.”

 _Perhaps we can at last have peace_ , he thought, as murmurs rippled through the throng around him and the Champion herself looked absolutely baffled.

He was wrong.


	6. Chapter 6

_Kirkwall Viscount’s Keep, the Free Marches; 9:40 Dragon_

“Viscountess, do you have a moment?”

Cullen rapped his knuckles softly on the wooden doorframe as he peered into the spacious office that once belonged to Viscount Marlowe Dumar. Now, Ainsleigh Hawke was sitting at the same desk Dumar had once used, staring at a bit of parchment with a half-bored look on her face. Though she took her position as leader of the city of Kirkwall seriously, she detested the paperwork that was involved. Her door was open, as it usually was; she was never a stickler for formality, and she even encouraged people to talk with her whenever they so wished, if for no other reason than to distract her from whatever letter or pamphlet or petition that she had no desire to read. Any unfinished work at the end of the day was foisted onto Seneschal Bran to handle. And that was, more often than not, almost all of it.

When she heard Cullen’s voice, she looked up and met his honey-colored eyes with her pale ones. They were a soft ice blue, so light in color they were almost silver, and they glittered from the firelight as she leaned back in her chair. Her slightly downturned, oval lips tugged into a broad smile – unpainted, he noted. One thing that he learned fairly quickly was that Hawke’s overall appearance was eclectic to say the least, ranging from subdued to dramatic and changing on a daily basis. Today, she seemed to have chosen subdued, wearing only subtle eye makeup and a simply-made champagne silk dress that pooled about her matching slippered feet.

“I always have a moment for our esteemed Knight-Commander,” she replied cheerfully, gesturing to the chair opposite her. “Do have a seat, my good ser.”

He dipped his head graciously in response, “Thank you, my lady.”

As he moved to do as she bade, he marveled at how few times he had visited her office in the past three years, despite the fact that they both held quarters in the same building, now. Since the defeat of Meredith, the Gallows had been condemned, and as the years went on, it was evident that such a decision was a good thing: the power of the red lyrium in Meredith’s sword had tainted the very stone of the place, and it had not taken long for the substance to begin sprouting straight out of the cobbles. With the Templars’ stronghold effectively destroyed, accommodations were eventually made for him in the Viscount’s Keep, and what Templars survived the conflict now shared the barracks with Aveline Hendyr’s guards.

“What brings you here, today?” Hawke asked at length, cocking her head at him as he sat and causing her high ponytail to fall upon her shoulder in thick cascade, which blended with the silk of her dress. The dark iron-grey circlet that marked her as Viscountess was stark against her rose blonde hair, and it seemed far too heavy for her, in more ways than one. He felt a twinge of guilt as he remembered that such a burden was partially his fault.

“I…” he began tentatively, shifting his weight and causing his armor to rattle lightly as he wondered how to begin. “I actually came here to offer you a warning, my lady.”

Her brow furrowed, and she leaned forward, her usually gentle countenance at once turning serious, “A warning? What about? Is there some sort of danger?”

He glanced to the crackling hearth, and then down at his bare hands in his lap, remembering that he had left his gauntlets in his office on his desk. “It’s about the Templars, actually.”

She heaved a heavy sigh, leaning back again as her eyes wandered to the walls. A chuckle escaped her lips, and she shook her head. “It’s always the Templars, it seems.”

He snorted, “Yes, well. You’re not the only one who harbors that sentiment.” He grinned from the mirth her remark brought, but it faded quickly. “In all seriousness, however, I must tell you – I fear I will not be able to control them much longer.”

Her head cocked again as her eyes latched back onto his, “What do you mean?”

His lips thinned. “I gave my men strict orders not to return to the Gallows under any circumstances. The red lyrium that has taken root there is far too dangerous and unpredictable, and I do not wish to risk the same madness that overtook Meredith tainting anyone else. Yet Aveline has passed an increasing number of reports to me that she has seen a good number of them going to and coming from the Gallows at night, and I fear the worst.”

Hawke frowned, “You think they’re being influenced by it?”

Cullen lowered his voice to a hushed whisper, his gaze never once leaving hers as he explained. “I know that many of them have a dark fascination with it, bordering obsession. There are some who are envious of the level of power that Meredith displayed at the Gallows, and there is no doubt that they wish to possess that sort of power for themselves. They are paranoid of a disaster like what happened with the Chantry occurring again, and they will do whatever it takes to prevent it from happening.” He sighed once more, shaking his head, “What’s worse is that they are beginning to project their fears onto you. They doubt my judgment as Commander in supporting an apostate for the throne, and I can feel the rumblings of dissent beginning to grow louder. I will attempt to rein them in as much as I can, but,” he took a breath, “There is only so far my influence goes, I’m afraid. Especially now that the Circles are stirring themselves into a frenzy.”

She glanced away, silent for a few long moments as she absorbed his words. He studied her face as she thought, as if he might be able to read her reaction upon it before she voiced it. Her countenance was oval, like that of many a statue of Andraste he’d seen, with a slightly long nose – somewhat pointed, too. Her eyes were downturned, but only marginally so, and he noticed the subtle lines at their corners, coming naturally with her advancement into her mid-thirties but enhanced by years of physical and emotional stress. There were quite a few who considered her attractive and even proposed marriage after her ascension to the throne, despite her magehood. Yet, she remained aloof, giving her heart only to the Prince of Starkhaven.

At last, she replied without looking back at him, “Do we need to call in allies? Petition one of the other Templar strongholds to take in these survivors and get them away from Kirkwall? Starkhaven, perhaps? I could write a letter to Sebastian.”

He thought about her offer for a moment, and then shook his head. “That may cause more harm than good, as they could have a negative influence on more stable situations elsewhere,” he paused, gazing into the fireplace once more before adding, “I hesitate to suggest this, but you may have to flee the city to be truly safe. It cannot be denied that the Order here in Kirkwall is crumbling, and trying to keep it together is like attempting to hold water in one’s hands – it is only a matter of time until it all slips away.”

Suddenly, there was a slight _tap_ of her nails against metal as she leaned forward and put a hand on his forearm reassuringly, “It’s not your fault.”

This was the healer Hawke…the Hawke who tried to mend every bad situation with spell or counsel. It coexisted alongside the witty Hawke and the pensive Hawke, and it came out anytime she sensed someone feeling broken, physically or emotionally. Guilt or pain was impossible to hide from her, as if plainly etched on the faces of the suffering, and once discovered, nothing would stop her from trying to ease it.

This despite the fact that she suffered greatly herself, and he knew it.

He met her gentle gaze and inclined his head politely in thanks, then slowly rose to his feet. “Neither is it yours, my lady,” he replied, before heading towards the door. Halfway there, he turned back and added, with all sincerity in his tone, “Please, heed my words and take great care. You are a target, make no mistake. Aveline and I will do what we can to maintain control, but it may not be enough.”

What she would choose to do with advice, he did not know. Whether or not she stayed in Kirkwall or left was, ultimately, her decision, but he hated to see something happen to her if she remained. He had begun to see her as a friend and trusted ally, and he had not felt so close to a mage since…well, since the Amell girl. Her cousin. His stomach twisted at the memory, and he shoved it behind the wall that held back so many other recollections he could not bear to think about.

A wall that was slowly crumbling.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

A few months later, when the leaves turned from shades of green to fiery hues of gold and red, she was gone.

When Lord Seeker Lambert declared the Nevarran Accord null and void, the Templar Order was effectively severed from the Chantry, and more than half of the Templars under Cullen’s command promptly abandoned Kirkwall, as did the Viscountess herself. She vanished without a trace, leaving no indication of where she had fled to, and the citizens of Kirkwall were left wondering where their beloved Hawke had flown. Not long after she disappeared, rumors swirled that a Seeker of Truth was searching for her, and Cullen wondered if that selfsame Seeker would come knocking on his door, sooner or later.

Never in his life had Cullen felt quite so purposeless. He was Commander of less than a dozen souls, who were part of an Order that had been transformed before their very eyes, torn from the Chantry they swore to serve, and repurposed to fight the rebel mages that had risen up after the rebellion at the White Spire in Val Royeaux earlier that year. He and those few Templars remaining in Kirkwall wanted none of that impetuous and highly-political chaos, but such a move (or lack thereof) left them almost completely without allies and most assuredly without any upper chain of command to turn to for guidance.

Now, as the leaves turned brown and fell and winter’s chill began to creep across the land, his only hope was to keep trying to maintain order alongside Guard Captain Aveline while Provisional Viscount Bran managed the city in Hawke’s absence. Day by day it was the same, keeping his nose to the grindstone and blocking out anything other than performing his duty to the people. It was all he _could_ do.

That was, until a knock _did_ come upon his door.

“Come in,” he replied, not looking up from his parchment as he hastily scrawled out more orders for Knight-Captain Rylen, an officer from Starkhaven who had been assisting the relief effort ever since the Chantry disaster.

The door swung open with a creak and groan, and the sound of clanking metal and the movement of a dark shape out of the corner of his eye caused him to glance upwards…

The emblem on the blackened breastplate of the woman who approached him caused him to spring to his feet.

“Seeker-” he began, but was cut off.

“- Cassandra Pentaghast,” she finished for him, eliminating the need for introduction then and there, “Right Hand of Divine Justinia V. And you are Knight-Commander Cullen Rutherford. I have heard much about you.”

Her small smile was one of slight amusement, and it somewhat softened her stern countenance, albeit only momentarily. She was bold featured and tan-skinned, with sharp, dark brown eyes and short-cropped black hair. Her jaw was strong, and her shoulders broad. Backlit as she was from the light of the doorway, she appeared nothing short of intimidating, in every sense of the word.

His brows rose in both surprise and concern, and he queried tentatively, “You…have?”

His tone betrayed the fact her words made him ill at ease. Her hearing of him could be deemed as much a bad thing as good; the Seekers of Truth were responsible for maintaining order within Templar ranks, and they were called upon at times to discipline wayward Templars. The Seekers were no longer part of the Chantry, ordered to aid the Templars under the command of Lord Seeker Lucius in fighting the rebel mages…perhaps she was here because he had not joined them?

No. She had introduced herself as a Hand of Justinia, which meant she was still aligned with the Chantry. Perhaps she was the one looking for Hawke, and she had come to him for answers…

The Seeker crossed her arms, slowly moving forward into the candlelight from his desk. “Your efforts to keep order in this city have not gone unnoticed, Commander. I have taken note of your role in maintaining peace and protecting the citizenry in the aftermath of the Chantry’s destruction. In a time when mages and  Templars both seem to have lost their senses, you have held fast to the rules of the Order and upheld its tenets, even when pressed by outside influences.”

He pulled his hands behind his back and glanced away, slightly uncomfortable, despite her praise, and wondering where she was going with this conversation. “I have only done what is right. What any Templar _should_ do.”

She smiled again, and he could not help but feel his discomfort increase. “And that is precisely the reason why I wish to extend an offer to you, on behalf of Divine Justinia V,” she replied.

His brow furrowed, his curiosity piqued. “And what offer is that?”

The Seeker sighed forcefully, “The Nevarran Accord is broken, and mages and Templars now make war across Thedas. Thousands of innocent lives have been caught in the crossfire, and if it is not stopped soon, we could see destruction far worse than that of the Chantry here in Kirkwall. The Divine has devised a plan to put a stop to it, and she has sent me to recruit the best souls to put that plan into motion, if need be.” She withdrew a thick, leather-bound book from her belt, emblazoned with the Chantry sunburst, and held it aloft for him to see. “She will call a Conclave in less than a years’ time to broker peace between the leaders of the rebel mages and the Templars. If that is not possible, then _this_ will be enacted.” She paused, meeting his gaze with a dark, glittering stare, “The Inquisition will be resurrected.”

His eyes widened, and his brows rose. The Inquisition was the origination point of both the Templar Order and the Seekers of Truth. Historically, it had been a method of spreading Andrastian influence across Thedas, in addition to combating dark magic of all sorts. The rebirth of such a world-changing organization seemed worse than an Exalted March. Cullen was certain that it was even more of a last-resort measure, which spoke volumes about the desperateness of the situation.

“And where do I come in?” He finally asked, unsure of his role in the Divine’s plan and why the Seeker would be telling him this – something that would be considered highly confidential, unless…

Cassandra looked at the book before returning it to her belt, “I offer you this: if the Inquisition is established, then you will be the official Commander of our military forces.”

“Me? Surely there are better-”

“I would have no other. You have proven yourself to be a capable leader of men, and you would be responsible for recruiting, training, and dispatching soldiers for the cause. Your role would not be much different than what you have been doing here,” she added, “simply on a larger scale.”

He glanced away again and swallowed hard, leaning forward onto his desk as he absorbed her words. For the second time in his life, he felt as though he were standing on the edge of a cliff, about to plummet over the side. One slip, one wrong move, one bad decision, and he would go down a path from which he could never return.

After a moment, he asked without looking up, “And the Divine truly thinks that such a measure will be necessary?”

“I cannot say what the Divine thinks. _I_ , however, think that it is not a matter of if, but when.”

Her blunt honesty did little to reassure him, but he appreciated her frankness. There was a long silence. He knew there was nothing left for him here in Kirkwall. Perhaps the Maker was giving him a way out…another chance. Perhaps this was his opportunity to change his life, and the lives of many others, for the better, beyond anything the Order could enable him to do.

She approached the desk, offering him her hand, “Help us stop this chaos, before it is too late.”

In the direct candlelight, she looked a little less intimidating, her features softened by the warm glow of the flame. As she looked at him expectantly, her hand proffered to him in an open gesture, she seemed earnest in her desire for his help.

At last, with a resounding _clack_ of armored hands, he agreed.

“Very well, Seeker Pentaghast. I am with you.”

She smiled, broadly this time, and shook his hand firmly. “Thank you, Commander. We leave for Val Royeaux on the morrow, and we will have many more leagues to travel after we get there. Pack your belongings and be sure to wear warm clothing. Where we are ultimately headed, you will need it.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

Cullen pressed his Templar signet ring into the soft wax pooled on the envelope, then set it aside. It was the longest letter he had written to Mia in years. Yet, he felt he had to put his thoughts to parchment. Besides, his sister had a right to know what he was doing, especially the sister who had worked so hard to get him into the Order he was now leaving behind. He spared the most confidential details, but otherwise told her of his intentions to leave the Templars for good.

Procuring a fresh piece of parchment, he discarded the orders he had previously penned for Rylen and began a new message to him with a different goal in mind. Seeker Pentaghast had given him permission to begin recruiting soldiers for the Divine’s cause, and, if agreed to, his first appointment would be a second-in-command.

Knight-Captain Rylen was a good man with a quick mind, driven by a desire to help those in need. He had stayed far longer than necessary to tend to the people of Kirkwall in the aftermath of the Chantry disaster, and when Lambert severed the Templars from the Chantry, Rylen and his men ignored the orders of the Lord Seeker and Knight-Commander Karsten and returned to Cullen’s command. He was not the first Templar Cullen had met who shared many of his sentiments on the Order, but he was the most experienced and the highest-ranked. He was also one of less than a handful of people whom Cullen truly trusted, and so he was naturally the Commander’s first choice as deputy.

Hunched over his desk, his determined countenance illuminated by the short candle’s flickering flame, he wrote with purpose, his words flowing from his mind to the parchment with an ease that he had not experienced in years. His pen moved quickly and surely across the page, the quill scratching softly all the while, and he only hoped that Rylen would see this opportunity as he did…

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

The hearth, blazing with fire the night before, was now cold. The bookshelves, once half-full with tomes and various odd trinkets, were now bare. The old oak desk, which once had been piled with papers and filled with documents, was now empty, and its polished surface reflected the light from the window. It was an odd and unfamiliar sight.

Cullen took one final look around his office. Everything he wanted to bring with him, he already had hauled to the docks in a single chest. He brought his weapons and his lyrium kit, but he abandoned his armor – along with his title. All that remained was to board the Seeker’s ship, and his life here in Kirkwall would be left behind…

…along with his life in the Order.

Part of him grieved, mourning the loss of his boyhood dream – a dream that had been shattered violently and, ultimately, transformed into a waking nightmare. And yet, at the same time, a part of him felt as though a weight had lifted from his shoulders, leaving him feeling lighter than he ever had before. As he descended the steps of the Viscount’s Keep and made his way through the streets of Hightown, he kept his gaze on the path ahead, each footstep deliberate. He had pondered enough. Now was the time to act.

Dodging faces he knew and keeping to the shadows, he hoped no one would recognize him in his plain breeches and studded leather jerkin; he did not care to make his departure obvious. Pulling his fur-lined cloak tighter around him against a blast of frigid winter air, he carefully avoided puddles that remained iced-over where the sun had yet to reach…

“Leaving us, are we, Knight-Commander?”

He stopped abruptly and turned, and the bold-featured, freckled countenance of Aveline Hendyr smiled at him from the top of the market plaza steps. He dipped his head almost bashfully, knowing he should have expected her to follow him.

“It’s time, Captain,” he replied simply, looking off in the direction of the Keep. “And it’s not ‘Knight-Commander,’ anymore,” he added quietly, “I’m leaving the Order. Forever.”

Aveline’s red brows rose, and for a moment she seemed dumbfounded, her jade-green eyes wide as they searched his. At last, however, she replied quietly, “That’s…unexpected. But I can’t say you’re not doing the right thing.” She sighed, putting her hands on her hips as she shook her head, “The Order isn’t what it used to be, I know that much. Or maybe it never was that way at all.”

“I’m starting to believe the latter,” he remarked dryly.

She was silent for a breath, as if unsure how to respond or buried in personal thoughts, then asked, “So…where are you off to now, then? Where does a man like you go after all this?”

He glanced away, “I…cannot say. Only that I will be serving the Chantry in a different capacity, now. I will be doing what I can to stop this madness between mages and Templars before Thedas is torn apart by it.”

“ _Well_ , then,” Aveline shook her head, running a gauntleted hand through her short-cropped copper hair. Cullen remembered when it had reached her shoulders, but she had finally tired of caring for it and had it cut not much longer than his own. “If that’s the case, I wish you luck. You’ll need it.”

After a moment, she held out her open hand to him, “Cullen, I’ve got to say it’s been an honor to work with you…and fight at your side. May the Maker and Andraste both watch over you.”

Inclining his head, he grasped her forearm firmly, “And you, Captain Aveline.”

“We’ll hold things together as best we can,” she replied with a wry smile. Then, reaching up with her other hand and clapping him on the shoulder, she added quietly, “Don’t blame yourself for what happened here. Don’t dwell on what you should or could have done. And don’t feel sorry for leaving it all behind. It will eat you alive, and you know it.”

He met her eyes and was silent for a long moment before answering, “I will try not to. Thank you, Aveline, and farewell.”

With that, she let go of him and watched as he descended into Lowtown. He felt her eyes on his back as he went, and he could not help but feel guilty for leaving her this mess to deal with on her own. She was a strong woman, however, and she had Donnic to help her. If anyone could handle Kirkwall’s chaotic and disastrous nature, it was Aveline.

When he arrived at the docks at last, having successfully avoided encounters with any other acquaintances, he saw an unhelmed Rylen and a few Templars there with him. As he approached, the Knight-Captain hailed him and grinned broadly, addressing him in his heavy Starkhaven brogue, “I got your message, Commander.”

Cullen slowly halted, resting his hand casually on the sword at his waist and watching as Rylen approached, curious as to what his answer would be.

“And…?”

Rylen gestured to the handful of other Templars beside him, “We’ve decided to come with you, as you requested. You want a second-in-command? You’ve got him. And these are your first soldiers.”

Rylen’s words brought a smile to Cullen’s lips, and he shook the Templar’s hand firmly, “Thank you, Knight-Captain. It will be good to have you with us.”

“And it will be good to leave the Marches behind for a while,” Rylen replied, “Since the explosion, everyone’s gone barking mad. It’s time to get out of here.” Turning and pointing, he added, “Speaking of which, there’s our ship. Beauty, isn’t she?”

Cullen followed Rylen’s finger to the frigate slightly to the right. It was a noble-looking vessel, the golden figurehead that of a burning Andraste, hands clasped in prayer below the bowsprit. The mainmast was adorned with two flags, one bearing the emblem of the Chantry – the blazing sunburst on a red field – and the other sporting the symbol of the Seekers of Truth – a white eye encircled in flame. All across the deck scurried sailors and soldiers, ferrying supplies aboard and preparing the ship for departure.

“They are well-armed,” Cullen remarked, noting the impressive ballistae at the bow and stern.

“Have to be,” Rylen snorted, “Pirate attacks have been increasing all around the Waking Sea. That, plus mages and Templars stealing vessels and fighting each other…it’s damn near pulled trade to a grinding halt, from what I hear.”

“Curly!”

The sudden call caused Cullen to bristle in annoyance. Only one person in Kirkwall called him by that name, and he wished to the Maker he would stop…

Varric Tethras wandered across the docks towards him, a wry smile on the dwarf’s weathered countenance. Cullen noted a few small, relatively fresh cuts on his face and even bruising around his temples. “Somehow I’m not surprised to see you here. Did the Seeker take you prisoner, too?”

Cullen’s brow furrowed, “Seeker Pentaghast arrested you?”

Varric sighed, “Not precisely. But let’s just say I’m not coming along of my own volition. When I couldn’t tell her where the Champion went, she decided to drag me with her. I don’t know what more I can do, but whatever she wants, she’s not talking.”

“So she _was_ looking for Hawke,” Cullen mused aloud, “I thought I heard a Seeker was looking for her, but I did not know it was Seeker Pentaghast. She told me nothing of her findings or the lack thereof, only asking me to join her and the Divine’s cause.”

Snorting, Varric shook his head, “Yeah, well. She blamed Hawke for all this shit, if you can believe it. Thought it was all her fault, and that she was the one who incited and even encouraged the mage uprising here in Kirkwall…tricked the Templars or some such rot. When the Seeker found out the truth, though,” he glanced back at the ship, “she actually wanted to find her to help with...whatever it is exactly she wants help with. But I couldn’t tell her anything, so…here we are.” He frowned, “She changed her tune rather quickly, though, and now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure her whole spiel was just a ploy to get me to spill my guts in Hawke’s defense.”

Cullen suddenly wondered if the Seeker knew of his involvement in the Champion’s disappearance – if Varric had told her why Hawke had left, and whether or not it was at his advice. He knew that Ainsleigh and Varric were close friends, but he did not know if she had told anyone of their meeting or of his words of warning. She had said nothing to him and had not given him any farewell before she vanished, and Cullen had no inkling of where she might have gone. If Seeker Pentaghast decided to ask him about her whereabouts, then that would be all he could tell her.

At that moment, Cassandra herself appeared at their side, along with another woman who wore the same garb as the Seeker, and Cullen thought she looked oddly familiar. Memories suddenly came flooding back in a torrent that nearly knocked him down.

_…a pale oval face sporting a smattering of freckles, framed with a straight-cut copper bob adorned with a single braid…soft, mottled blue eyes with faint brown centers…a ready bow at Wynne’s side…_

She smiled at him gently, seeming to read his thoughts as she greeted him, “I am Sister Leliana. We have met before, no? Not properly, of course, but briefly. At the Circle of Ferelden, before the Warden-Commander became Queen.”

Her voice returned him to the present, and he had to force his heart to keep a steady beat as he nodded curtly, “Yes, so we have. It seems I owe you proper thanks, as I…was not able to give it to you then.”

She shook her head solemnly, “No, it is not necessary. What matters is that you are here, now, and have joined us in our fight to restore order. Cassandra speaks highly of you, and I am sure you will be a valuable asset to our cause.”

“If we are finished here, we should return to Val Royeaux,” Cassandra herself added, gesturing to the ship, “There is not much time to waste. We can talk more once we are on board.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

Once the ship was moving, leaving the harbor of Kirkwall far behind, Cullen emerged on the top deck and wandered to the railing, watching as the dark waves lapped against the hull and the gulls flew lazily past. He took a deep breath as he leaned against the rail, inhaling the salty, frigid air deeply into his lungs and closing his eyes as he felt the icy wind ruffle his hair. Even though it was winter, Kirkwall was a fair bit warmer than the same season in Honnleath; persons from farther north would find it uncomfortable, but Cullen thought the current weather more than tolerable. It also helped settle his slightly uneasy stomach…

“Enjoying freedom?”

Cassandra’s voice came from his left. She had meandered up beside him and was now leaning on the railing with him, giving him a sideways glance. She seemed to be appraising him with those dark eyes of hers, but her expression was unreadable.

She did not wait for an answer from him before she added, “Tell me…do you have any regrets about leaving the Order?”

“No.”

The answer was out before he could think about it fully, and he wondered what she would think of its abruptness. His response seemed to please her, however, as she nodded. “I felt the same when I rejected Lambert’s orders. I know you must have thought it when I first spoke with you in your office, but I did not come to Kirkwall as a Seeker. I came as a servant of the Divine, and nothing else. Much like you, I refused to follow my Order when it took a path I did not agree with.”

Cullen was silent for a long moment before he replied without looking at her, “I idolized the Templars as a boy. I never once thought I wasn’t doing the right thing by joining them, or that the Order was anything other than what I _believed_ it to be. I was completely devoted to it. And now…”

He trailed off. The bitterness was evident in his tone, and it was her turn to be quiet for a while. At last, however, she answered slowly, “Devotion gives one purpose in life. But it can also blind one to truth.” She looked at him intently, “I may not follow my fellow Seekers any longer, but I still pursue the truth. And the truth is that both the Seekers and the Templars have been led astray. Now, it is up to us to correct that mistake and bring them back to the fold.”

He stared at the water below, watching the sunlight glint off of each wave crest, “And if they cannot be brought back?”

“Then the Inquisition will destroy them.”


	7. Chapter 7

_Somewhere in the Free Marches; 9:40 Dragon_

“We’re going to have to fight the bastards head on, Lieutenant!”

“We don’t have enough manpower! Keep running!”

Donovan felt the sizzling heat of the fireball that exploded dangerously close as he helped the Templar beside him half-carry, half-drag a wounded comrade between them. Sweat trickled down his scalp and burned in his eyes. They were running as fast as they could in their armor and with a limp burden on their shoulders. Plowing headlong through thick woods, they nearly tripped over exposed, gnarled roots and slid precariously over smooth, moss-covered stones, their vision dangerously inhibited by their helmets. Yet, there was no time to stop and remove them, not with hostile apostates on their heels.

“Just…leave me behind…it’s easier…” their injured fellow gasped, the sound hollow in his helm.

“No,” Donovan declared firmly, his voice ringing against metal, “We’re not leaving anyone to die.”

A shrill shriek then pierced the air as one of the rebel mages following them was downed by a whistling arrow – Corporal Jehanna’s doing, no doubt. The marksmen in their company were attempting to increase the distance between the fleeing warriors and the pursuing mages by picking off the rebels’ numbers one by one from whatever cover presented itself as they moved quickly through the forest.

“Someone just smite the sons of bitches and get it over with!” another Templar cried in frustration.

“No! Don’t!” Donovan shouted in reply, “We have to conserve our lyrium!”

A sharp yelp, and another mage was slain. It was answered by a second uncomfortably-close fireball, however, and there was a loud rattle as one of the Templars threw himself to the earth to avoid being hit. It was then that a bloodcurdling war cry made the hairs stand up on the backs of their necks. Donovan and his two comrades twisted around to see a flashing blur of silver charge behind them, blade uplifted in a shimmering sliver of steel.

“Oh, Maker, there goes Dieter.”

“Cover him!” Donovan heard Jehanna’s voice call out to her fellow archer.

A blended cacophony of screaming arrows, a screaming blade, and screaming men reached their ears from beyond the small ridge behind which Dieter had disappeared. Donovan turned back and kept pushing onwards, knowing that Dieter was buying them time and refusing to squander it despite his concern for the raging warrior’s life.

It wasn’t long before, over the din of rattling armor and their labored breathing, there was a distant call of “Retreat!”

No doubt Dieter’s greatsword and nigh-mad fury, along with Jehanna and Emil’s swift and sure arrows, frightened the surviving mages off. Finally, the sound of fighting ceased, replaced with the clatter of metal and heavy footsteps crashing through the dry brush as the remainder of their small company coalesced into a mass of shimmering silverite once more. As soon as they were certain the mages would not pursue any longer, they stopped, and Donovan and his comrade lowered the wounded Templar between them to the earth to examine his injuries more closely.

“Damn, Harwin,” Donovan breathed as he pulled the torn breastplate from the injured Templar’s torso. There were wicked, bloody lacerations all across the young man’s abdomen in thin, long trails, like raw, spidery veins.

“Ribs are cracked,” Harwin hissed, his face covered in a sheen of sweat, “I can tell. Damn demon got the jump on me…”

“Broken leg, too,” their companion added grimly, “We’ll have to set that.”

“Here, Knight-Lieutenant,” Emil approached, proffering a small healing potion from his belt, “This should take care of most of it. After the setting, of course.”

“Right,” Donovan pushed Harwin flat, “Put your glove in your mouth, Corporal.”

“Maker,” the Templar’s voice was shaky, but he did as instructed, sinking his teeth into the thick leather and tasting sweat and blood…both his own.

There was a nauseating _crack_ of bone, and Harwin reeled, emitting a loud and long groan of agony as he bit down on the treated leather of his gauntlet. Before he could react any further, however, Donovan thrust the now-open potion bottle at him and forced him to down it then and there, practically pouring the concoction down the man’s throat himself.

“Knight-Lieutenant.”

With Harwin stabilized for the time being, Donovan stood and turned to face Corporal Jehanna. She had her helm tucked under her arm, revealing a severe, deeply scarred countenance and a disheveled bun of wispy, mouse-brown hair, greying at her temples. Only one bright, jade-green eye met his; the other was covered by a leather patch, put out in her younger years by a fearsome Revenant’s blade.

“Ser, the mages have been driven back enough they should not be able to follow us, now,” she said, inclining her head to him, “We picked off more than half their number.”

“Good,” Donovan replied with an approving nod, “Let us hope that we don’t encounter more of these rebels before the next town.”

“Speaking of which,” Emil interjected, looking all around him, “where in the Void are we?”

Donovan’s brow furrowed, and he glanced to the one who yet tended Harwin, “Sven, where are we?”

There was a shrug of silver shoulders, “Don’t look at me, I don’t have a map.”

“Great,” the mountain of a Templar named Dieter sighed heavily. “We’re lost.”

“Right,” Donovan removed his helm, running a hand through his sweaty black hair and closing his eyes, “We were on the road to Starkhaven, then were run off it with those apostates showed up…so we ended up going…” he trailed, glancing around to get his bearings.

“Southwest,” Jehanna supplied, “We were run southwest.”

“So if we turn straight north,” he continued with a nod of agreement, “We should run into the road again.”

“ _Should_ ,” Emil emphasized.

“Harwin is in no shape to travel despite the potion,” Sven stood, taking off his own helmet to reveal a round, almost cherubic face and dark brown eyes wide with concern, “We need to set up camp and quickly,” he glanced upwards at the pink and orange sky, “before night settles in.”

“You’re right.” Donovan looked between them, and then dispatched his orders: “Everyone, start gathering wood and clear a place for a fire. Drag some logs together for seats and make some beds of leaves. Let’s move!”

“ _Ser!_ ”

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Three hours later, the small party of Templars was gathered around a crackling blaze of impressive strength, feeding their hungry bellies with the meat of a buck Emil managed to bring down while the others were gathering wood for the fire. They were a right sight, half in and half out of sparkling silver armor, stained with blood and mud, ornamental skirts soiled, torn, and tattered, licking greasy fingers as they voraciously devoured their meal with bare hands. Despite the chill of winter, the fire was enough to banish most of the cold, and the venison warmed them from within.

Such was the condition of the loyalist Templars of Markham, the ones who refused their Knight-Commander’s orders to join Lambert’s rebellion against the Chantry and who had left the tower and the town they protected for good. Donovan was the highest-ranked of them all, and so possessed a modicum of authority over them. He felt responsible for each of them, especially since they had followed his lead in abandoning the Circle they served…a couple of them having dwelled at the tower for decades.

Having already satisfied his own growling stomach, Donovan slowly scanned the harshly-lit circle of faces around him as they focused on eating, letting his eyes fall from first one warrior, then to the next.

Jehanna was the oldest of them, well into her forties. As such, she was a pseudo-mother figure to several in their company; where Donovan held actual rank over the others, Jehanna possessed a nearly equal authority through her age and serious demeanor alone. However, despite her advancing years and lack of an eye, she was a deadly shot with a bow and almost as quick with a knife. Her only faults were her short temper and lack of patience.

Donovan, Dieter, and Harwin were all the next in age, Dieter the oldest of the three. The huge Templar was nearly a head taller than Donovan, who himself exceeded six feet in height by an inch or two. Everyone speculated that Dieter had Avvar blood in his veins, but no one had yet dared ask the surly man about it. He wore a scraggly, dark brown beard and a mess of curly hair that was always matted to his scalp from the weight of his helm. A greatsword was his weapon of choice, but he could handle any two-handed weapon with a sort of ease that left most who beheld him in awe. Harwin, on the other hand, was a slightly-built man, shorter than Donovan and slimmer, too, with large grey eyes and platinum-blonde hair, stark in contrast to his tawny skin. Harwin was half elven, which he made no secret about and was, to the surprise of most who met him, not ashamed of. Donovan remembered Harwin telling him that he had been abandoned by his mother on the doorsteps of the Chantry, and that the Templars had taken him as their own when they discovered his talent with a blade. Like Donovan, he favored a sword and shield fighting style; unfortunately, his lack of a shield was what put him in his currently injured state.

Sven and Emil were the youngest, in their late twenties, having just been promoted to the rank of Corporal before Lambert’s edict was issued. Both Sven and Emil were red-headed, though Sven’s hair was more of a copper tone and Emil’s was the color of blood. That was where their physical similarities ended. The round-faced Sven was a tad stout and favored an axe in close combat; Emil, on the other hand, was almost the complete opposite: slim like Harwin and an archer like Jehanna. In fact, it was Donovan’s understanding that Emil had been trained by Jehanna herself, and he was almost as good as her already, despite being half her age and experience.

Almost.

As Donovan glanced to each of his silent comrades, he wondered how many of them would make it to Starkhaven alive…if even _he_ would make it there in once piece. It would be at least five more days until they reached the city’s gates, and that was _if_ they did not run into any more difficulties along the way. The wilderness was crawling with predators and apostates and abominations of all sorts, and they had already been confronted twice on the first day of travel. It was not a good sign.

On top of that, their lyrium resources were dangerously low. Many of them only possessed what they had on their belts when they left the tower. They would have to use it sparingly and refrain from utilizing any of their signature techniques that could sap them of their strength. And with rebel mages roaming the woods freely, that was a tall order.

As he listened to the crackling of the fire, his mind wandered to his baby sister, Verana. He knew that Ostwick’s Circle had collapsed before Markham’s, and he wondered if she was even still alive. Had, Maker forbid it, she been killed in the conflict? Or was she wandering the wilderness, same as he, searching for a safe haven? He had told himself that he would somehow _know_ if she was dead, but he didn’t. Part of him wanted to return to Ostwick to find out for sure, but another part of him knew it was no use. Word in Markham was that there were no mages left in the city of Ostwick, and he doubted if anyone there still breathing cared if she was alive or dead, not even their father or the Teyrn.

He hated it. All of it. He hated the Circles and the Templars and the Seekers for causing this idiotic war. And he hated himself, too…for promising that he would be there for his little sister when she needed him most and then being unable to fulfill that promise. It was a lie. All a lie. To comfort himself or her more, he did not know.

Now, he had only the faintest of ideas where _he_ was, let alone where she might be. And he could do absolutely nothing about any of it.

 _Maker damn it all_.


	8. Chapter 8

_Val Royeaux, the Empire of Orlais; Cassus (Haring), 9:40 Dragon_

Despite the reasonably smooth seas, the voyage to Val Royeaux was anything but pleasant. Unfortunately, Cullen had rediscovered the slight seasickness he had initially experienced sailing from Ferelden to Kirkwall. To make matters worse, the ship’s hold was almost unbearably confined due to the sheer number of passengers crammed aboard. Sleeping and dining quarters were shared between the Seeker soldiers and the Templars Cullen had recruited, while Leliana – whom he learned was Justinia’s Left Hand – and Cassandra had their own private cabin. The two women often disappeared there for extended periods of time, speaking in hushed tones that could not be understood beyond the walls, leaving Cullen wondering what they were planning. Whatever they were doing, they did not offer any explanations, and he, in turn, did not ask any questions. Instead, he spent most of his time during the journey above-decks with Rylen and his men, playing chess and trading stories to pass the time.

Varric, as Cassandra’s prisoner, was restricted to below decks, and he mostly stayed to himself, writing in a thick, leather-bound book whenever Cullen glanced his way. Occasionally, he would insert himself into conversations around the ship in order to try and make acquaintances, but most of the people he approached were not interested. Cullen himself could only wonder why Cassandra wanted to bring the dwarf along with them, but he suspected that it had to do with having him within easy reach should something concerning Hawke happen to arise. The Seeker herself kept her distance from Varric and did not interrogate him further, and he, in turn, did not offer anything more regarding the Champion. Though Cassandra was not openly hostile towards Varric, it was obvious that she viewed him with disdain and even suspicion, as she involuntarily curled her lip anytime the dwarf caught her eye.

Two weeks after they first began their journey, and only a week away from the new year, _Her Noble Sacrifice_ docked at the capital of Orlais. It was overcast, tiny snow flurries swirling to the pavement and melting on contact. Despite the dismal atmosphere, however, the gilt roofs of the city still shone brightly, and the tall towers of the Grand Cathedral and the White Spire pierced the grey sky like stone spears. The city itself seemed to sprawl on forever, a patchwork of brightly-colored gables, draped balconies, and bannered turrets. Over the din of city noise, the faint sound of the Chant of Light could be heard being sung in full from the Grand Cathedral.

Cullen pulled his heavy cloak tightly around himself with one hand and hefted his pack over his shoulder with the other as he approached the gangplank. Rylen followed closely behind him, whistling in slight awe as he looked about at the vista before them.

“You ever think you’d find yourself coming here voluntarily, Commander?” the Knight-Captain asked, a puff of vapor in the frigid air following his words.

“No, I did not. And the minute we leave here will not be a moment too soon,” Cullen replied tersely, his distaste obvious in his tone.

Unfortunately, they would be in the capital at least until the new year. Leliana had mentioned that the crew was running low on essential supplies, and both the travelers and the troops needed to rest and recuperate before the next leg of their journey. This weeklong stay was not something to which Cullen looked forward; he was a Fereldan in Orlesian lands and in the company of a great many Marchers, and both cultures had a volatile history with Orlais. Their only saving grace was that they were with the Chantry, but even that might not stop some nobles from trying to pick a fight with them. Cassandra seemed to have anticipated possible antagonism, and thus she directed the group straight to the Seekers’ headquarters without delay, leading them from the harbor and deeper into the city.

“I’m guessing they don’t like tourists,” Varric remarked as they navigated through a few particularly narrow streets in an obviously upper-class district. Cullen could feel eyes staring at them from behind painted faces and elaborate masks. Ladies shied away from them, turning and hiding behind their fluttering fans. Men watched with an air of disdain, but with the Seeker forces surrounding the traveling party, along with armored Templars in their ranks, they dared do nothing more. A hum of murmuring and hissing whispers followed them like the buzz of gnats.

“Among these dolls, we stick out like a sore thumb,” Rylen added quietly.

Varric chuckled, “We’re bare-faced in the Masked Empire. That tells them all they need to know about us.”

And indeed, the dwarf seemed to be correct. As they followed Cassandra and Leliana through the city, even past lower-class districts and skirting close to the alienage, it was apparent that _everyone_ wore masks, from the lowest servant to the highest noble. Each mask seemed indicative of station and relation, clear to all who looked upon them what family the wearer belonged to or worked for. The masks were more than ornamentation; they served a very clear purpose. Those who did not wear masks were very clearly outside of this distinctly stratified social hierarchy, which meant only a few things – they were ignorant outsiders, challengers of tradition, or both. No doubt their very presence unnerved all who saw them.

When they at last reached the headquarters, it was like a breath of fresh air. Devoid of the trappings of Orlesian society, what lay before them was an enormous fortress that appeared to be nigh impregnable. The high, smooth stone walls were not scalable without siege ladders. The massive gatehouse sported both portcullis and drawbridge over a wide moat. Black banners that hung near the gates and atop the towers, proudly bearing the emblem of the Seeker Order, fluttered lazily in the cold wind. It was an imposing and, perhaps, even threatening structure to behold.

And yet, once inside, they found it surprisingly empty. Cullen surmised that, out of the Seekers that yet remained loyal to the Chantry, most of them must have accompanied Cassandra and Leliana to Kirkwall. This thought caused the corners of Cullen’s mouth to turn downwards as he pressed his lips together. It was a reminder that the Templars were not the only ones reduced to nearly nothing by the rebellion.

Many of those in their company heaved a sigh of relief when the portcullis closed behind them with the slow grinding of gears and clanking of heavy chains, thankful to have thick walls between them and the prying eyes of the Orlesians. No doubt the city was already in a flurry with gossips guessing their purpose for being there. And yet, those people seemed like a world away here, as if the fortress existed in a reality unto itself. It was oddly peaceful, and, like those who called this place home, Cullen found himself eager for rest. The journey was taxing in more ways than one, and the weeks’ worth of recuperation was beginning to look much more attractive.

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His cheek was incredibly sore.

That was the first thing that registered.

The next thing he became aware of was that he was lying on his stomach on a narrow cot with the blanket half falling off of the bed, his face resting on the back of one hand while the other dangled over the side of the straw mattress. Bright sunlight streamed into the room from the high window, a patch of floor illuminated in a narrow rectangle from the dust-filled beam.

Groaning, Cullen rolled onto his back and slowly sat up, massaging his cheek from where his face had pressed into his knuckles for hours. Blinking a few times, he became aware of the fact that the chamber was already empty of his fellow roommates: Rylen and two Seeker soldiers. Brow furrowing, he came to the conclusion that he must have been more exhausted the night before than he realized. He then slid from the bed and began to dress, quickly pulling on his clothes. It was then he noticed a ready wash basin across the room, and he headed towards it, eager to refresh himself.

But when he passed by the large looking glass that stood along the wall, he halted suddenly in his tracks to observe the stranger looking back at him.

Instead of his usually cleanly-shaven jaw, he wore two weeks’ worth of scruffy beard that aged him almost ten years. An uncut, untamed mass of golden curls, like a living entity unto itself, defiantly demonstrated what happened when he did not keep his hair cut short. Those who did not know him would never be able to guess that this was the reflection of a former Templar commander.

That simply could not stand.

With Rylen and their Seeker comrades out of the room at the moment, Cullen decided to go ahead and commandeer the wash basin, eager to bring some semblance of order to his unkempt appearance. He shaved quickly, after which he already felt much more like himself. He then produced his ivory comb and began to work at conquering the unruly mop on his head.

Unfortunately, he was fighting a losing battle. No matter what he attempted to do, it wouldn’t work. He didn’t know why he tried; this was why he had it chopped off all the time. The only way it looked any semblance of professional was when it was nearly non-existent. But the last time he had had his hair cut was long before he had left Kirkwall with Cassandra…

“ ’Air troubles?”

A thick Orlesian accent spoke nearby – one of the Seekers. So engrossed was Cullen in his fight that he did not notice his fellow roommate enter.

“You could say that,” he answered flatly, his nose wrinkling in disgust as he glared at himself in the mirror.

There was the sound of the Seeker rummaging around in his pack for a bit before he sidled up to the commander and proffered a small glass jar.

“ ’Ere. Zis will fix anything.”

Cullen’s brow rose as he slowly took the jar from the Seeker’s hand, “And…what is it?”

The Seeker shrugged indifferently, “No idea. Not sure I _want_ to know. My sister gave it to me once as a gift. Got tired of me threatening to tear out my ’air by the roots because I ’ated it so much. It worked for mine, so I figure it will ’elp yours. Just don’t use a lot, or it will clump up everywhere and look like a nug tried to eat your ’ead.” He then pointed at the jar, “Keep it. It’s extra, anyway. It will last you a year if you use it right.”

At that, the Seeker went back to organizing his personal belongings, leaving Cullen to do with the mysterious jar of stuff as he saw fit. Brow furrowing, the commander examined the container and found himself slightly amused by the elaborately crafted label, which read in swirling script:

_Chevalier Charlente’s Crème Pour Les Cheveux: Taming Wild Tresses Since 8:18 Blessed._

Turning the pot in his hands, the reverse read in much smaller script: _For management of unruly, dry, or damaged hair. Do not ingest. Side effects may include vanity, overconfidence, and irresistibility. Use responsibly._

Rolling his eyes, he resisted the urge to huff “Orlesians” for the sake of his benefactor and tentatively removed the lid. Within the jar was a slightly opaque substance, almost clear. There was only a slight smell of incense, not enough to be offensive. Sighing in resignation, he took a small bit onto his fingers and ran it through his hair. He watched as the crème dissolved with every stroke…

…and, slowly but surely, the curls began loosening.

Careful not to use too much, Cullen added a tiny bit more of the crème and worked from front to back, slowly pulling the substance through each lock from root to tip and watching even more intently as it began to work its magic on his entire head. Instead of a haphazard mess of curls, it was transforming into a cohesive whole that actually looked somewhat manageable…

The Seeker must have noticed the expression on Cullen’s face, as the Orlesian chuckled, “That was the same reaction I ’ad. I guarantee you won’t be able to live without it, now.”

As the crème was worked into his hair, it stiffened a bit, and so he quickly began to comb it into an actual style. Opting for something simple, he brushed it all back away from his face. His hair was thick enough that it did not lay flat to his head, but rather merely pushed back with a good bit of volume. It took some finesse to combat a contrived appearance, but at last he was able to comb each lock into the rest to where it almost looked natural. So effective was this strange substance that Cullen became slightly suspicious that some sort of blood magic was involved…

There was a whistle, and Cullen turned to see Rylen grinning at him, “Damn, Commander. You won’t be able to keep the ladies off you, now.”

“That…was not the goal…” his eyes widened at himself in the mirror. He had to admit, it looked rather sharp. And, whether he wanted to acknowledge it or not, the ability to suddenly control something that had been previously unmanageable boosted his self-confidence immensely.

“ ’Course, not,” Rylen teased, “Just a convenient side effect.” The Knight-Captain then added, “By the way…there are lyrium stores for us while we’re here. Might want to stock up now while you can. No telling when we’ll have access to them again.”

That sobered Cullen quickly. He had almost forgotten about his dose of lyrium that morning, and he was close to running out. Rising, he moved to his pack where it lay by his cot and withdrew his kit from it, then frowned as he held the box in his hands for a moment, eyes running over the well-worn wood.

This again.

As he prepared his tincture, his thoughts were dark and bitter. He had left the Order behind in Kirkwall, but _this_ still bound him to it all. He wasn’t a Templar by vocation anymore, but the lyrium still made him one. It gave him all the abilities of one. But it also tied him down with all the rest, too.

He had thought about quitting…just giving it up and never drinking another drop again. But he knew what would happen, then. The withdrawals would set in – symptoms that he knew would, over time, make life itself torture to endure. He had seen what happened to those who had gone only a few days without it. After an extended period of time, some Templars went mad. Others even died from it.

He tilted back his head and downed the draught in one swallow, ignoring the taste, the smell, the electric jolt of it through his system and forcefully jamming the cork back onto the bottle. It would be prudent to stay on it just a bit longer, he thought. Just a bit longer. There was no telling what they would run into on the way to Haven. There could be demons and powerful rebel mages – even abominations – and his abilities would be needed to protect the rest.

It was sound logic, he thought.

But there was a small part of him that knew he was afraid…knew that familiar sensation of dread churning in his stomach at the very idea of abandoning the elixir that gave him strength and kept the pain at bay…

…knew that all the justifications in the world were merely covers for his cowardice.

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After donning his leather armor, Cullen made his way to the dining hall where his roommates had already grabbed a spot of breakfast – a thick porridge with salted ham strips. The rebellion had thinned the supplies of even the Seeker fortress considerably, and no one had any time to see to the restocking of the larder. He tried to keep his eyes on his food while he ate, but he could not help but notice several of those around him glancing his way now and again. He wasn’t entirely sure why until a female Seeker soldier brushed by his table with a wink.

“Nice hair.”

Clearing his throat, he gave her naught but a curt nod in reply, pretending to have his mouth full so he could not verbally answer her.

Finishing his food quickly, he departed the hall feeling a rising heat in his cheeks and eyes on his back. But as he rounded the corner, immersed fully in his thoughts, he almost bumped right into Cassandra.

“There you are,” she said, stepping back a bit in surprise and to avoid colliding into him. Pausing, she looked him over briefly, and her brows rose, “And…you look quite…professional, Commander.”

“I…um, thank you, Seeker,” he replied awkwardly, not expecting such a simple change in his appearance to have such a drastic effect on the way he was received by…pretty much everyone.

She smiled and nodded, “Come. It is time Leliana and I told you more of our plans. We could not speak of these matters on the ship – but we can now.”

She then led him through winding halls of the fortress to a small meeting room where a map was laid out on a table, along with several stacks of letters and other correspondence. Leliana sat opposite them as they entered, legs crossed casually, and she nodded to Cullen respectfully when she saw him. It was a dimly-lit chamber with no windows, the only source of light being a few torches along the walls and candles on the table.

When Cassandra shut the door behind him, he glanced between the women, wondering what they would reveal to him at this clandestine meeting. “What is it you wish to discuss with me?”

Leliana leaned forward in her chair, “We want to update you on what is happening and where we see this endeavor ultimately going.”

Cassandra sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose and closing her eyes. “There is so much to tell. It is difficult to find a starting point.”

Leliana gave him a half-smile as she glanced to her fellow Hand. “Cassandra has already told you the basics, I assume. The Divine foresees the possibility of a resurrected Inquisition.”

“And now that you have joined with us,” the Seeker continued, inclining her head to him, “we have a general to marshal our forces. Sister Leliana is responsible for espionage, and she has already begun building a network of informants in Ferelden and Orlais to serve our cause. However, we still lack a leader and a diplomat, both of which will be needed to properly manage the reborn Inquisition.”

“I already have some ideas regarding the latter,” Leliana replied, laying a hand on a stack of freshly-folded parchment. “I will have some letters sent out tomorrow.”

“Hopefully, that will be resolved soon, then. As for our possible Inquisitor,” Cassandra turned away and began pacing slowly, “We thought it prudent to find someone who was already popular with the people, as well someone who had proven themselves a capable and inspirational leader. It would make the development of such an organization easier for the public to swallow and lessen possible resistance against us.”

“Our first choice was the Hero and Queen of Ferelden,” Leliana said. Staring off into the shadows, she slowly shook her head as she continued, “And yet, for all our efforts, we could not establish contact with her. She has gone missing.”

“King Alistair does not know where she is?” Cullen asked, slightly skeptical that not even the Hero’s husband had an inkling as to her whereabouts.

Leliana shook her head again, letting out an exasperated breath, “No. None of my contacts know where she has gone. I suspect I know what she is doing, something that likely involves the Grey Wardens, but I could not venture to guess where.”

Cassandra turned back towards them, “Then, we tried to find the Champion of Kirkwall, but you know how well that search turned out.”

“And beyond those two,” Leliana continued, returning her attention to him, “we do not know of anyone else with the right amount of popularity and skill for the position.”

“Could you not lead the Inquisition, Seeker?” Cullen suggested. After all, she was already the esteemed Hero of Orlais, rescuer of Divine Beatrix. It seemed to him that she fell right into the same category as the Queen and the Champion and could be just as likely a candidate for the job.

Cassandra huffed loudly, and her nose wrinkled in disgust. “I have no _desire_ to. And I am afraid I do not have the charisma that is required of such a leader.”

“Or the patience,” Leliana teased.

Cassandra glared at the Nightingale, who only offered a mischievous smile in reply, before returning her attention to Cullen. “We will continue to search for possible candidates, but, in the meantime, we must begin preparations for the establishment of the order.”

“The Divine has already left Val Royeaux on a pilgrimage to the Temple of Sacred Ashes, in Ferelden,” Leliana stood and leaned over the table, pointing to the location on the map. “She wishes to hold the Conclave there in the autumn of next year.”

“The nearby village of Haven will be a suitable base of operations from which we can begin fortifying the area for the arrival of the mage and Templar leaders,” Cassandra moved towards the map and indicated the village near the Temple. “There will also be a great many other representatives across Thedas who come there…those who have an interest in the fates of both organizations and how they will affect the various realms, especially Orlais.”

“There will also no doubt be pilgrims making their way there as well,” Leliana noted, “those who pray for peace and for the Maker’s guidance in this matter.”

“Security must be high a priority, then,” Cullen remarked, “for the Divine as well as for the travelers.”

“That’s where _you_ come in,” Cassandra answered with a nod of confirmation. “We will need well-trained soldiers to maintain order and protect everyone on the way to the Temple. We must also ensure that the Templars and mages cease their fighting in the area and do not endanger anyone. Unfortunately, with most of the Templars having abandoned their duties, Chantry forces are all but nonexistent. Those we do have will be concerned with the protection of the Divine herself.”

“And until the Inquisition is officially established, publically recruiting for such a cause will be all but impossible,” Cullen replied, crossing his arms and shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Which means we will likely have to rely on mercenaries for manpower.”

“You may find many interested parties right here in Val Royeaux,” Leliana nodded, “I will see what information I can gather for you.”

“We will leave for Haven after the first of the year,” Cassandra continued. “Until then, do as much as you can to ready yourself and your men for travel. With this war still raging, expect rogue Templars and mages to make life miserable on travelers.”

“And bandits,” Leliana added pointedly, “Highwaymen have already been taking advantage of this chaos, looting and pillaging with impunity.”

“I will make proper preparations,” Cullen nodded. “I will inspect the soldiers this evening and set up regular training routines until we leave. We will not lose our edge while we wait to depart.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

Leliana was able to procure much information on the available mercenary companies in the city, of which there were roughly a half-dozen. Out of these, only two caught Cullen’s eye as competent enough for their purposes. One was a standard company of Orlesian sellswords, Les Lames D’Argent, and they appeared to be a professional and capable lot. Many of them were experienced veterans who had been with the company for nearly a decade, although they had their share of young recruits as well, looking to take advantage of the recent chaos as much as the bandits they were typically hired to fight.

The other was a group of Qunari who called themselves the Valo-Kas.

They were an intimidating bunch and, like the Lames, consisted of veterans ranging from frontline warriors to ranged support. Yet they seemed entirely different from the Qunari who had occupied Kirkwall, as their leader, Shokrakar, made evident.

It was this towering woman who stood before him now, hands behind her back as she explained her company’s history and its talents. She wore a mismatched harness of plate, scale mail, and studded leather, painted in bright hues of orange and green – although half of the paint was flaking and peeling off. Her face was also smeared with the same colors, highlighting her severely angular features. Her snow-white hair was shaven on the left side of her head, the side where one of her horns was broken off near her skull; her other horn curled backwards like a halla’s over the rest of her shoulder-length hair. Her bright yellow eyes were almost unblinking as she spoke, and her words were a fluid mix of the King’s Tongue and terms from her native language.

“…so yeah, that’s all of us. You need muscle or archers, or whatever, we got it. Even got our own saarebas.”

Cullen blinked, “Your own…pardon?”

The Qunari’s head cocked curiously, and then an expression of realization swept across her painted features, “Oh. Right. Yeah, you call ’em mages. Adaar’s her name. She picked Asaaranda for herself. But we just call her Saarebas. Old habits die hard.”

Cullen paused. Qunari were going to be difficult to incorporate into the rest of the soldiers all by themselves, but with an apostate among them?

Sensing his hesitation, Shokrakar chuckled, “Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. Truth is, we’re having trouble trusting her, too. Like I said, old habits die hard. Qunari are even more suspicious than you human folk about that sort of thing. But like I told you before, we’re Tal–Vashoth. Meaning all that Qun bullshit doesn’t apply to us. Meaning we’re separating ourselves from it. Voluntarily. So we gotta give her the benefit of the doubt if we want to change, right? Well, at least until she sets one of us on fire.”

Cullen thought for a moment. These Tal-Vashoth seemed rather similar to them in circumstance – rebels against the order they had been raised from childhood to support. In fact, Cullen sensed that, if the initial wariness of them could be dissolved, some among their established forces might even find common ground with them, and that would strengthen them all. It would be a difficult task, but between himself, Rylen, and Cassandra’s efforts, surely they could convince these three groups work together peacefully for the Divine’s cause.

“What conditions do you have?” He asked at length, crossing his arms as he looked up at her; Shokrakar was at least a foot taller than he.

“Conditions?” Shokrakar looked puzzled for a moment, and then she grinned, “Only one. OK two. One, we get a copy of the contract to review ourselves. And two, don’t try to put us in that hairy eyeball armor. It’s creepy.”

He blinked again. After a few moments’ pause, he cleared his throat and replied, “Right then. Of course. Come with me, and we will get everything set up. Just be warned, not everyone will be happy to have you here.”

Shokrakar smirked, “If anyone was happy to have us anywhere, I’d question my sanity.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

_Verimensis (Wintermarch), 9:41 Dragon_

Sweat poured down his back and chest and trickled down his scalp, plastering his hair to his forehead. Clad in only his boots and breeches, weapon and shield in hand, Cullen’s eyes never left his opponent. Not once. A single blink at the wrong moment and the match would be forfeit. He was beginning to wonder why he ever agreed to this in the first place; it had to be the single longest sparring session in which he had ever participated.

The Seeker circled him, looking for a weakness. She, too, was covered in a sheet of sweat, and both of them were breathing hard from exhaustion. It was the only sound he could hear after the storm of violent cracks that echoed throughout the hall – the sharp sound of wood clashing against wood as they parried each other’s practice weapons in rapid succession.

And then they both moved at once, rushing each other. Their shields collided as each refused to yield ground to the other, swords and limbs tangling, until at last they stopped struggling.

“Draw?” she asked, panting the word out.

“Draw,” he agreed with a breathless nod, finally letting down his guard and stepping back from her.

Suddenly, thunderous applause filled the practice hall as the two sparring warriors discarded their weapons and shook hands. Cullen hadn’t even noticed the spectators gathering to watch the match, including Rylen and a few of the mercenaries they had hired.

Cullen moved to a nearby bench to retrieve his waterskin, drinking deeply from it as Cassandra gathered the equipment she had discarded for the training round. Both were too sweaty to put anything back on for the time being, and so they made for the door together with their clothing and armor in their hands, their audience leading the way ahead of them and chattering all the while.

“You fight well, Commander,” Cassandra remarked, giving him a sideways glance as they proceeded down the hall at a leisurely pace. “With each day, I am assured I picked the right person for the job.”

He smiled back at her and inclined his head in appreciation, “Thank you, Seeker. You are a woman of great martial talent, yourself. And if I may be honest, you are a rather frightening opponent.”

She smirked, “I try to be.”

He chuckled, “I am glad that was a mere practice. I pity the person who faces you with real weapons involved.”

“A fight with real weapons would have been much shorter.”

“I believe it.”

“By the way,” Cassandra added, stopping midstride and turning to face him, “the Divine recently inquired about your accommodations and asked if you had everything you needed.  I mentioned that you had left most of your equipment behind in Kirkwall. She has commissioned a reputable smith here in Val Royeaux to fashion a proper set of armor for you. Leliana managed to obtain your measurements from the armory records in the White Spire and sent them along with the commission request. It will be shipped to Haven when it is complete.”

Cullen, who had likewise halted in the middle of the corridor, gaped, “But-”

The Seeker shook her head and waved her hand to dismiss any objection that was forming, “There was, of course, no choice in the matter. Most Holy desired it done, and it will be done. I think she saw fit to reward you in some way for your loyalty. And besides,” she poked at the sleeve of his jerkin, “we can’t have the Inquisition’s Commander traipsing around in mere leathers or hand-me-down Seeker armor.”

“Appearances are important,” Leliana’s voice suddenly came from farther down the hall. There was a small smile on her face as she approached them and continued, “As our new diplomat will tell you.”

Cassandra’s brows rose, “We finally have someone?”

Sister Nightingale nodded, her smile widening, “The one I told you about…Lady Josephine Montilyet of Antiva, formerly the Antivan ambassador to Orlais. She has agreed to join our cause, and she should reach at Haven a few weeks after we do. I have already dispatched a small group of escorts to ensure that her arrival is safe and timely. Once she is there, I am certain that she will be able to communicate with and placate the nobility that gather for the Conclave far better than we.”

“Which will allow us to focus less on their inevitable complaints and more on properly securing the area,” Cullen remarked.

Cassandra snorted, “We will have our hands full with that. I don’t doubt that both the rogue Templars and the rebel mages will cause us no small amount of grief.”

“But,” Cullen replied, “we now have a sizeable force to help with that, and I imagine we will be able to pull in a few more recruits before the time of the Conclave.”

“Then, all that remains is for us to begin setting up defenses at Haven,” said Leliana, pulling her hands behind her back.

“We will be leaving in a few days’ time,” Cassandra turned her attention to Cullen. “Be sure that your men are ready for travel and prepared for possible conflict. I doubt that we will have a peaceful journey.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

_Somewhere near the Imperial Highway, West of Val Royeaux, Orlais_

The frosty winter air was filled with the sound of rattling wheels, clopping and snorting horses, and clanking armor as their company slowly made their way southward from Val Royeaux. They were able to follow the Imperial Highway wherever it was still intact, but traveling proved more problematic in the places where the Tevinter structure had long crumbled to ruin. They frequently had to move to cobble and even dirt side roads, and these routes were far less smooth for the several supply wagons in their convoy. Ice was a persistent problem in areas where the morning sun had yet to warm standing puddles, or where shadows made it impossible for its light to reach.

Cullen shifted his weight in the saddle as his horse plodded down the dirt thoroughfare they now found themselves upon. Despite its rustic simplicity, recalling many similar roads that crisscrossed Ferelden, it was part of a major merchant route through the Orlesian heartlands. Thus, it was wide enough for their company to proceed without setting foot in the brush that bordered the path.

Yet, despite the route being well-traveled by large caravans, it was still very dangerous, as was evident by the carnage they encountered as they rode. They had already passed ruins of several burned-out wagons, the corpses of mercenaries, travelers, mages, and Templars all littering the route. They spared the time to make pyres where they could, burning the dead in Andrastian custom to prevent demons from possessing the bodies. It seemed that, outside the great bastions of civilization, everything had fallen into utter bloodthirsty pandemonium, even more so than Cassandra had intimated back in Kirkwall. Many farmsteads they passed were neglected, livestock wandering freely, completely abandoned by the peasantry who had fled the countryside. If the situation remained as it was, then it would spell utter disaster for the following winter, as there would be little to no food left to send to market. This had to be stopped, and quickly.

“You know, Curly, you really shouldn’t wear such a serious expression all the time. It has to be bad for your health.”

The remark came from Varric, who rode a mule at his side. Sparing him an irritated glance, Cullen retorted with no small amount of annoyance in his tone, “You know, dwarf, you really shouldn’t talk quite so much. I am certain that it is bad for yours.”

“I’ll say,” Cassandra snorted behind them.

Cullen’s thoughts had just returned to the scouts they had sent ahead of them when, suddenly, there was a warning shout from the rear of their convoy. Alarmed, Cullen twisted around to see a horde of bandits erupting from the thick brush around them and descending upon the caravan. Arrows rained out of nowhere, causing the horses to balk and rear in fright.

“Damn it!” Rylen wheeled his own mount around, drawing his sword with an order to his men, “Cut those bastards down!”

The Seekers, Templars, and mercenaries leapt into action as the wagons came to an abrupt halt. The bandits swarmed them, melee fighters encircling them while their archers provided ranged support. In an instant, Cullen knew these were no novice marauders, and that they were likely the reason why the scouts had not reported back.

“Their archers!” he yelled, drawing his blade even as an arrow whistled dangerously close to his head. Most of their number could handle the melee fighters well, but the archers would prove problematic if not taken out of the equation, and quickly.

Spurring his mount forward, he sprang for the nearest bowman, rushing him before he could knock another arrow and striking down the bandit in a single blow, his sword slicing neatly through boiled leather. A mountain of a man charged for his horse with a maul uplifted, but an arrow suddenly burst through the bandit’s throat and he collapsed in the dirt; a quick glance backwards told Cullen it was Leliana’s, the Nightingale felling the marauder from her perch atop a wagon.

And then, his blood felt as though it were on fire.

 _Mages_.

Before the thought had even fully formed, an explosion erupted beneath his mount, throwing him backwards out of the saddle as his horse was incinerated by a fireball. He flipped midair, landing hard on his hands and chest and knocking the wind out of him. The Seeker breastplate Cassandra had given him had protected him from the jagged rock that had landed on, but it was still a painful fall. Despite this, he tightened his grip on his sword and scrambled to his feet in time to notice a deadly pattern of fiery runes tracing themselves out on the ground around him…

Reflexively, he  brought his blade up before him, the polished metal reflecting the azure glow in his eyes as he released a cleansing shockwave of power, the magical runes instantly fizzling out with an audible hiss like flames doused by water. This move clearly caught his now-visible opponent by surprise; they had not expected Templar powers from one not garbed in Templar regalia.

Before the mage could gather his power again, Cullen lashed out, this time wreathing his opponent in a shimmering force field that effectively rendered the mage’s powers inert. Panicking, the mage turned to run, but a bolt from Varric’s crossbow struck like a serpent, felling him instantly.

Whirling around, Cullen noted another mage locked in a rapid-fire exchange with the Valo-Kas saarebas, Asaaranda. Fortunately, the deadly duel was ended quickly, as a Templar took advantage of the enemy’s focus upon her fellow mage opponent to strike her down. The smell of singed flesh and fur filled the air from his slain steed, as did the sound of whistling arrows and clashing blades and shields. Ultimately, however, between the efforts of the Templars, the Seeker forces, and the mercenaries, the bandit attack was quickly repelled.

But it was not without cost. One of the caravan drivers and a total of three horses were slain, including his own. Two Seekers were severely wounded, as well as three Orlesian mercenaries and one Starkhaven Templar. When all was clear, Cullen finally sheathed his blade and approached the main bulk of the company, taking deep breaths to subdue the still-simmering lyrium in his veins.

“Agh, what a mess,” Varric replaced his crossbow onto his back and shook his head disgustedly, “Can’t believe anyone would try to attack us…you’d think the big fat eyes on the armor and the Templars among us would be some sort of deterrent for that sort of thing.”

“Perhaps the mages among them made them feel more confident,” Cassandra replied, slightly breathless from exertion. “Or perhaps they merely thought they would drive us away from our cargo.”

“Either way,” Varric struggled to calm his dancing mule, “Makes you wonder how the Divine got through here untouched.”

Leliana jumped down from where she stood on the seat of the nearest wagon. “Likely because she _is_ the Divine,” she offered. “There is often honor amongst thieves, as it were. Where we might be an acceptable target, for the devout, Divine Justinia herself would not be.”

“Let us hope no one else is fool enough to attack us,” Cullen muttered tersely. Then, signaling his second-in-command, he added, “Rylen! We’re going to need better scouts in greater numbers. Once the wounded are seen to, send them ahead of us and wait for word back before we proceed further. We cannot afford for this to happen again.”

“Aye, Commander.”

Cassandra sighed heavily, “It’s going to be a long trip. I can tell already.”

Pressing his lips together as he felt the lyrium and his adrenaline finally die down, Cullen replied quietly, “So can I.”


	9. Chapter 9

_Haven, Ferelden; Pluitanis (Guardian), 9:41 Dragon_

A month after they began their difficult winter journey through Orlais, the forces of Seeker Pentaghast arrived at the village of Haven. The locals’ usually-lengthy celebration of Wintersend was already long over, the continuous mage-Templar war having drained almost everyone of any festive mood. The residents and pilgrims sheltering in the town welcomed the sight of more Chantry forces, and they could only wonder what the Divine, who had taken up temporary residence at the nearby Temple of Sacred Ashes, was planning…

Once everyone had begun to stable mounts and unpack supplies while waiting for the Seeker to secure some sort of lodging for them all, Cullen broke away from the main group to spend some time to himself; the journey there had set his nerves on edge for the entirety of its duration, and he needed a moment to simply breathe. Looking about, he noticed that a frozen lake lay nearby, a broken pier leading partway over it. It reminded him so much of the lake near his childhood home – a home that was now long destroyed. As he wandered towards it, grasping one of the aged wooden posts of the fishing pier with a thickly-gloved hand, he was plunged headlong into old memories that left him feeling strangely empty.

He inhaled a deep lungful of frigid air and expelled it slowly, letting tension drift away with his misty breath. As his gaze fell upon the ice-cloaked mountains that encircled the valley in which Haven was nestled, his thoughts were bittersweet; this was the first time he had set foot on Fereldan soil in nearly a decade. His eyes slowly traced the jagged peaks, and something in his heart panged. He had never thought to come back here once he left for Kirkwall, and for many years, he was certain that he would never wish to. But standing here, breathing in that familiar, crisp air and feeling the presence of those ancient mountains surrounding him, gave him the strangest sense of peace…

“Andraste’s _ass_ , it’s _freezing_!”

The peace was broken as Rylen’s voice suddenly interrupted his reverie from his left, the direction of the stables; glancing that way, Cullen saw the Knight-Captain tucking his chin into his scarf and wrapping himself tighter into his fur-lined cloak. A look of pure misery was writ on the Marcher’s face as he approached, clouds of white vapor puffing from him with every shivering exhalation. “I don’t see how you Fereldans stand it.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Cullen replied nonchalantly, looking back out over the shimmering expanse of the frozen lake. “Besides, spring is not that far away.”

Rylen snorted, another misty puff following, “Says _you_. The one born and raised on the ass-end of Thedas. Me, I’ll probably turn into an ice statue before spring ever comes _close_ to rearing its head in these Maker-forsaken parts.”

Cullen shook his head and clapped his comrade on the shoulder, moving to leave the pier. Rylen’s presence had returned Cullen’s thoughts to their preparations, and he gestured to the rocky path that skirted the outer edge of the settlement. “If you are quite finished complaining, Knight-Captain, let’s head towards the Temple. I want to get a good look at the defensibility of the valley before I start arranging patrols.”

“Fine. Let’s get it over with.”

With that, the pair headed down the path to the Temple, thick snow and pebbles crunching underfoot as they followed a winding trail past the village. It wasn’t long before they arrived at a great stone bridge arcing over the frozen stream that fed the lake, snow and ice draped over the cobbles like heavy shawls. Flanked by gatehouses on either end, this bridge was, Cullen deduced, a formidable defense all by itself. From the look of it, it guarded the only traversable way from Haven to the Temple.

As the two men approached, they noticed a pair of Chantry sisters stationed on either side of the entry door, wearing heavier garments for outdoor wear than their usual habits. Both women stood silent watch, waiting for pilgrims who wished to gain access to the bridge.  One sister was quite elderly, her figure slightly stooped in her robes. The other was young, perhaps just initiated. When Cullen and Rylen neared, the elder woman held up her gnarled hand to stop their progress.

“This is the Penitents’ Crossing, sers,” she addressed them, her voice surprisingly clear and commanding. “You may not proceed further without shedding your cloaks and furs. You must walk the bridge without them and turn only to the Maker to ease your suffering. If you are true in your devotion to the Maker, then shall your thoughts be purified, and thus, your sins purged.”

The two men exchanged hesitant glances before nodding solemnly.

 “As you wish, Sister.”

They removed their cloaks, scarves, and heavy gloves, entrusting them to the priestess who stopped them before beginning their walk across the bridge, the sister herself following close behind them. Here, the wind gusted into the valley, funneled through the pass the bridge partially spanned. Without the extra garments to protect them, the winter gales pierced through their leathers like icepicks, chilling the two to the bone. Despite the shivers that wracked his frame, Cullen was silent, focused only on the path ahead; to his surprise, Rylen did not make a sound, either, perhaps in an attempt to prove that his earlier complaining was not a sign of his lack of fortitude. They squinted against the wind, lips pressed tightly together and fists curled as they strode with purpose towards the opposite end of the bridge.

When at last they made it to the other side, they were given back their clothing by the elder sister, who congratulated them on their success and blessed them before letting them continue on their way.

“Right,” Rylen finally spoke again as he threw his cloak about his shoulders, “Tell me we don’t have to do that every time we come this way.”

Cullen pulled on his gauntlets and glanced backward at the bridge. “I will have a word with the sisters. We do not need our soldiers’ progress inhibited by this ritual, as significant as it is.”

With that brief but intense trial behind them, the two continued their trek through the pass that led to the Temple. More bridges lay ahead, occasionally spanning the stream that continued onward, as well as steep ravines and rocky crags. None were as impressive as the Penitents’ Crossing, but Cullen assessed that each were controllable points; it would be easy to station men at each bridge to guard the way into the valley proper, and rotating patrol routes could be made between each one. Glancing down at the rocky outcroppings, he noted that the natural terrain would do much of the defending for them. The cliffs and ledges would be nigh-impassable, even without the hazards of the current season. With travelers forced to stick with the path that was carved through the mountains, they would not have to worry about bandits or marauders overwhelming their patrols from the flanks…they would have to face them head-on.

At last, after what seemed like hours of walking, the Temple of Sacred Ashes came into view, and what a sight it was.

First found by the Hero of Ferelden, the Temple had been renovated by order of Justinia, and it now stood as a monument to its miraculous discovery and a dedication to the sacrifice of Andraste. With its beautiful, ornately adorned gables and elegant architecture, its ancient façade was a reminder of the foundation of the Chantry and the original purpose of all its Orders. How fitting that the Divine had decided to host the Conclave here, so that such a reminder might be obvious to all who attended.

“Are you going to pay a visit?” Rylen asked at length.

Cullen was silent for a long moment, causing his companion to turn towards him and look at him with curiosity in his dark grey gaze. At last, however, the former replied, “No. I have seen all I need to, as Sister Leliana and Seeker Pentaghast will be handling the security of the Temple of Sacred Ashes themselves. They are Justinia’s Hands, after all. And besides that, I am no longer a Templar. I have no authority there.”

Rylen’s brow furrowed at him briefly as he absorbed his superior’s response, but if he was unconvinced with Cullen’s answer, he did not say. Instead, he gestured to the path behind them and answered simply, “After you, then, Commander.”

They then wordlessly began the trek back to Haven. Cullen knew his reasoning did not seem satisfactory to Rylen. And, indeed, despite the truthfulness of what he had said, it was still merely an excuse. The harsh reality of the matter was that he did not believe himself worthy enough to step within those sacred halls. His past actions in Kirkwall – or the lack thereof – continued to haunt him. After the events in Ferelden and during his tenure in the City of Chains, he feared he had wandered too far off the path of a true Templar, and as such, lost sight of the Maker. He had let Meredith’s paranoia fuel his own convictions…had for too long ignored the plight of innocent mages while focused on tracking down and punishing those who practiced blood magic. It was true that his attitude had changed much in his later years of service in Kirkwall, a change he owed primarily to the efforts of Hawke, but those first ones during which he harbored anger and resentment at every mage for the atrocities committed at Kinloch Hold were ones he felt he had not yet atoned for…and perhaps never could.

He should have known what Meredith truly was. And he would have had he not been so doggedly devoted to the Order – to an ideal that existed only in his mind. He had not seen – did not _want_ to see – the corruption, the madness, until it was too late. Perhaps if he had intervened sooner, this conflict would not have manifested in the way that it had…

According to Hawke, Anders had been a disaster waiting to happen. But Cullen could not help but wonder if he could have done something to prevent the apostate’s desperate act. How much of this war was _his_ fault? Perhaps it was foolish to think such things, but too few were asking themselves the same question, including the very Chantry that had ignored the conditions that had caused such a crisis to begin with.

_Devotion gives one purpose in life. But it can also blind one to truth._

He could not afford to be so blind again.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

In just the span of a week, the pilgrim’s rest of Haven was transformed into a base camp for the Divine’s servants and her hired soldiers. Though a large number of the visitors and residents were happy to have heightened security in such a chaotic time, there were a few among them who were concerned with the cultural makeup of those guarding the valley; Fereldans did not mix well with either Orlesians or qunari. With the presence of the Divine’s Hands, however, there was not much anyone dared to do about it, and so their apprehension at the mercenaries in their midst went largely unvoiced.

That was, until they found out that Cullen was in charge of the security forces assembled in the settlement.

The inner chambers of the Chantry itself had been transformed into a provisional office space from which he, Cassandra, and Leliana made the Divine’s wishes manifest, preparing Haven for the imminent calling of the Conclave. The two Hands trekked frequently to the Temple and back again while he remained in the village itself, taking reports from Rylen, Captain Aldric of the Lames D’Argent, and the Valo-Kas by way of Asaaranda.

It was this last messenger who now stood before his makeshift desk, bringing the latest report from Shokrakar on the state of the immediate surroundings of the Temple.

Asaaranda Adaar was, like Shokrakar, incredibly tall, having to duck to enter the room. Yet, unlike her captain, the young qunari mage was slim in build and possessed more refined features. Both her horns, curled like a ram’s, were still intact, and her shoulder-length, blood-red hair was always neatly combed. As she approached his desk, she gave him a shy smile and silently extended the report to him as she usually did, mottled green eyes avoiding his as she dipped her head out of deference.

“Thank you,” he said, answering her smile with a polite one of his own. Since she had been delivering reports to him, he had noticed that she was a rather nervous creature, not at all sharing in Shokrakar’s almost overbearing confidence. He wondered if this was a result of her treatment among the Valo-Kas, her interactions with the other mercenaries in their employ, or merely a lifetime of being looked upon with suspicion, like most other mages in Thedas. Here in Ferelden, such suspicion would be magnified tenfold, as she was both mage _and_ feared qunari. Fortunately for her, she had not yet been discovered by anyone else to be a mage, but if they ever witnessed her in combat, her cover would be blown. He could only wonder why Shokrakar insisted on using her as a messenger…

With the report successfully delivered, she turned away to leave as quietly as she had entered. Yet Cullen had the sudden instinctive urge to ask, “You haven’t run into any… _trouble_ , have you?”

She halted mid step, whirling back with widened eyes. Whether she was startled at his question or merely the fact that he had addressed her at all, he was unsure. Either way, it was a breath or two before she finally answered him.

“Trouble? N-no…no trouble. N-nothing at all,” her reply was unexpectedly soft and stuttering, her gaze fixated somewhere on the desk, rather than on him. “It’s a long walk, but that’s it. Is that all…ser? Er…that _is_ what I call you, right?”

“That is fine, yes,” he affirmed with a small nod of approval. “It is good to hear that you have not encountered any difficulties. And unless you have anything else for me, that will be all.”

All too eager to depart, the qunari then spun on her heel and vanished out of his office door in the space of a mere second, the door slowly swinging closed behind her. No doubt she wished to return to the comforting presence of the rest of her company before anyone tried anything…

He had not even broken the seal on Shokrakar’s message when a priestess suddenly burst into his office, nervously glancing in the direction Asaaranda had taken before approaching him with a look of stern disapproval on her face. She wore the robes of a Mother, the gold accents glinting in the light of the sconces, and she appeared to have some age on her – if he had to guess, she was somewhere between fifty and sixty years old. She had thin, high eyebrows that had yet to turn grey, a long, slim nose, and a small mouth that was pressed together so tightly it appeared she had no lips at all.

“Ser,” she began tersely, her accent most certainly betraying her as Fereldan, “Is that… _heathen_ one of your soldiers?”

Cullen sighed. He knew this was coming.

“No, Mother,” he replied. “However, she _is_ a member of a mercenary company hired at the order of the Divine and thereby under my direction until further notice.”

“I see.” The priestess’s mouth pursed as though she had just bitten a lemon. “And is the Divine aware that you have hired barbarous _heretics_ to guard Her Perfection’s flock? I find it rather _telling_ that those farthest from the Maker’s sight are so easily entrusted with the well-being of his true Children, and I cannot believe that the Divine herself would sanction such a thing.”

His own lips thinned at her question, and he propped his elbows on the desk, peaking his fingers as he met the Mother’s sharp gaze with his own. “With all due respect, Your Reverence, the Most Holy is concerned with the security of those traveling to the Temple of Sacred Ashes, not the political or theological status of those tasked with keeping them safe from harm. These mercenaries were hired for their skill alone, not their religious affiliations or lack thereof.”

The priestess pulled her hands behind her back, hissing in irritation, “Good ser, you _must_ understand that the people are disturbed by these…these… _qunari_ among them. They have told me that they do not feel safe being watched by these heretical foreigners.”

“And who would you have me hire, Mother?” Cullen finally snapped, his voice a low growl, “If you hadn’t noticed, the Templar Order is no longer available and is, in fact, part of the problem that required the hiring of mercenaries to protect pilgrims in the first place.” Leaning back in his chair, he added, “I appreciate your concern, Your Reverence, but nothing will be done on the grounds of fear alone.”

That, he knew, was one of the primary causes of the war, one that the Chantry had either encouraged or turned a blind eye to. He left these particular thoughts unvoiced, however.

His answer caused a sneer to flicker across her countenance, “If any blood of the faithful is spilled by these beastly heathens, I will know who is ultimately responsible, and I will see you brought before the Divine for retribution for your sacrilegious negligence!”

His gaze was unwavering as he answered flatly, “I’m sure you will.”

Practically wriggling with indignation, the priestess then stormed out of his office and slammed the door behind her.

Part of him wondered just how many of “the people” on whose behalf she was speaking, or if it was her sentiments alone she had voiced. He strongly suspected the latter, although he would not be surprised if there were rumblings of dissent anytime Asaaranda made an appearance. He would have to speak with Shokrakar about it; the Lames did not seem too unsettled by the Valo-Kas...perhaps correspondence could go through a member of the Orlesian company instead. His primary concern was that people like the good Mother might provoke the qunari mage into a reaction she could not control, and that would be a bad situation for everyone.

As far as Asaaranda in particular was concerned, he was not certain if he trusted her completely, despite her meek yet earnest nature. She seemed to handle herself well enough under duress when they were attacked by the bandits en route to Haven. On the other hand, her lack of confidence in her interactions with him hinted at potential danger, which was only intensified by the paranoia of the people around her. At the same time, however, he would not act on suspicion alone. He would not become another Meredith.

In any event, the Valo-Kas and the Lames D’Argent would need help, soon. The amount of pilgrims and travelers in would only increase as the weather warmed, and there was only so much that these two companies could handle; though they were both quite competent, their numbers were limited. After studying Shokrakar’s report and setting it aside, Cullen resolved to look to the residents of the village for his first new recruits.

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That evening, after he had finished an extensive but successful training bout with a handful of new recruits from the settlement, Cassandra caught his attention from the gates with a small wave and gestured for him to follow her. Mopping his brow with a kerchief while jogging up to her, he inquired breathlessly, “What news, Seeker?”

The corner of her mouth pulled into a smile, “There’s something you should see, Commander.”

His brow furrowed, but though he was curious as to what she meant, he said nothing as he followed her through the village. She eventually led him to the small cabin he had been granted to reside in until the Conclave. Her smile widening, she pushed open the door and gestured for him to go inside. He hesitated, his curiosity only increasing, but he did as bade.

Stepping inside, he noticed the difference immediately.

To the left, on the wall near his tiny cot, was something quite tall, draped in a plain white sheet. Glancing back at the Seeker, he noticed she was now pressing her lips together to keep from outright grinning as she leaned against the partition between the bedroom and living area, and he wondered what it was she had done and whether or not he should be concerned…

Moving forward, he carefully grasped the sheet and pulled it away.

“Maker’s _breath_!”

There, arranged perfectly on a wooden stand, was his new armor, commissioned by Divine Justinia herself – something that, in all the activity, he had completely forgotten about.

It was a magnificent harness of silverite, the smooth and polished plates glimmering with a mirror-like sheen in the low light. Reinforced greaves, tassets, gauntlets, spaulders…it was a full armor, much of which was edged with a thin gold trim. Ornaments were sparse, but elegant; a bit of embossing adorned the gorget, while the familiar Sword of Mercy was engraved on each vambrace. The latter nod to his former status as a Templar caused a smirk to tug at his lips, and he wondered if that little inclusion was purposeful on the Divine’s part.

As he inspected the ensemble further, he noted that arming garments had been included, with a sturdy, suede-sleeved gambeson and leather breeches – the former of which included a quilted vest and mail shirt – as well as heavy leather gauntlets and boots. There was a decorative vest and coat of finely woven wool and heavy cotton, both of which were dyed blood-red and embroidered in gold thread. The coat was edged with golden satin, and it sported a rather ostentatious fur collar of varying russet hues. To top it all off, quite literally, was a magnificent helm crafted to resemble the visage of a heraldic lion, the wearer’s face couched in the jaws of the silver beast. The back of the helmet even sported a mane to match the fur collar of the coat. It was this piece in particular that made him glance back at Cassandra with brow furrowed once more.

“A lion? Isn’t that the heraldry of Orlais? The Divine does realize I’m Fereldan, right?”

The Seeker tilted her head, “Lions are not animals exclusively limited to House Valmont. I cannot claim to know the Divine’s reasoning, but perhaps it is meant to reflect your character, rather than a nation or ties to nobility. A lion is courageous…tenacious, even. It is intimidating, striking fear into the hearts of its enemies with its roar. It is also a leader, and a source of inspiration to all those who look upon it…what _you_ will be as our Commander.”

He did not reply as he absorbed her words, letting his eyes travel over the ensemble again. He still could not quite believe it was his and was not quite certain he was worthy of it or its symbolism.

“Who knows,” she added with a light chuckle. “Perhaps you will become a lion to rival that of Orlais. The Lion of Ferelden.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

As the days went by and slowly began to warm, signaling the long-anticipated approach of spring, the number of pilgrims and other travelers of all social classes heading to the Temple of Sacred Ashes gradually increased, as was expected. Many used the Divine’s visit to Ferelden as an excuse to finally make a pilgrimage the remote Temple, as they would not have otherwise risked the treacherous roads and hazardous weather to see it. It was in the midst of winter’s last hurrah – a particularly slushy snow – that one very important traveler finally arrived in Haven.

Cullen was busy examining reports at his desk again. There were disconcerting reports from the Valo-Kas concerning nightly activity close to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. He largely ignored the chatter occurring immediately outside his office as he made notes to talk with the mercenary captains as soon as possible. That was, until there was a brief knock and the door swung open with a loud creak.

“-someone else you should meet.”

Leliana’s voice preceded the entry of herself, Cassandra, and another woman into his office, and Cullen abruptly stood to greet them, straightening the coat of his new armor as he did so. The stranger was shorter than both the Hands, with a rather petite yet full figure. Her complexion was dark, her upswept hair a brown-black and her eyes a glittering hazel in the candlelight. She wore a rather lavish outfit of silk and velveteen, accompanied by a few pieces of sparkling gold jewelry, and Cullen immediately thought that she was a noble dignitary. Indeed, she carried herself with a distinctly noble air – a mixture of poise and grace that came from years of training. She held her traveling cloak folded neatly in her hands, the fabric of which was yet lightly dusted with snow, and she looked up at him with a friendly smile.

“Lady Montilyet, this is Commander Cullen,” Cassandra began, gesturing to him. “He joined with us in Kirkwall, and he is to be our military advisor.” Turning to him, she added, “Commander, this is Lady Josephine Montilyet. You recall Leliana mentioned acquiring an ambassador for our cause?”

He nodded, giving the ambassador a slight bow, “Ah yes, of course. A pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise, Commander,” she replied with a small curtsy, her voice tinged with a distinct Antivan accent, “I look forward to working with you in the effort to restore peace to Thedas. Sister Leliana has told me much of the Divine’s plan. I can only hope that our tenure together will be productive, and that this chaos is put to rest in short order.”

“That is something we all hope for, Lady Ambassador,” Cassandra said, shifting her weight from one foot to the other as she crossed her arms, “but it is also something we fear will not be possible. Hence the need for soldiers to be ready to move at a moment’s notice.” At this, the Seeker gave a slight not of acknowledgment to Cullen.

Taking this as his cue to elaborate, Cullen added, “We have done what we can to ensure that travelers to the Conclave will be safe, but I fear there is still much to be done. The threat of the war spilling into more civilized lands grows by the day, and we will need more forces as the mages and Templars are called together.”

“That is where you can help,” Leliana turned to the ambassador. “We need more sources for soldiers and mercenaries beyond the immediate area. There are only so many volunteers we can recruit from Haven, and with Orlais embroiled in civil war, it is difficult to find competent sellswords who have not yet been hired by either side.”

Josephine slowly nodded, the gears already almost visibly turning. “Yes, I know a few minor nobles who owe me favors. That should be a good start. From there, I can easily look into contacting others who are known for their devotion to the Divine.”

“Good,” Cassandra looked pleased at this response. “Divine Justinia will begin the call for the Conclave at the beginning of next month, and we will need to be ready for the arrival of the mage and Templar leaders. A large part of that will be having enough men to stop any conflicts that might break out.”

“Many Grand Clerics will also be in attendance,” Leliana continued, “as well as their noble supporters. We will need your assistance in accommodating them as well. Neither Haven nor the Temple of Sacred Ashes has an appropriate amount of space for the sheer number of people who plan to come here.”

“I assume you will also be putting me in charge of financial affairs, then?” Josephine inquired.

“That will primarily be the mercenary contracts for now,” Cassandra replied, “and I am sure the Commander would appreciate your taking care of them. But yes, that will also be part of your duties should the Inquisition be formed as we expect.”

“Of course,” Josephine grinned, “It would be no trouble. I will be more than pleased to assist with anything that is within my capabilities.”

Cullen inclined his head to her respectfully, “Your help will be invaluable, I am certain. Sister Leliana has spoken quite highly of you.”

Josephine looked a bit embarrassed at the compliment, as her cheeks tinted a rosy hue, and she glanced between them, “Well…I can only hope I live up to your expectations. But I must admit, I am rather eager for the challenge. I promise you, I will do my very best.”

 “That is all we _can_ do,” Cullen replied, giving the Ambassador a grim smile, “and pray that it is enough.”


	10. Chapter 10

_Tantervale, the Free Marches; Pluitanis (Guardian), 9:41 Dragon_

After sheltering in Starkhaven through the new year and a little after, Donovan Trevelyan and his small band of Templars, fearing they were overstaying their welcome, eventually departed the largest city in the Marches for Tantervale, a settlement farther west along the Minanter River. This time, they made sure they had enough lyrium for the journey – which, due to the poor weather and hazardous conditions, was a little over a week.

They had picked up a handful new allies during that time – Templars who were tired of inaction and itching to see the wider world. First, there was Clara and Cornelia, twin sisters who were trained with small blades. With their identical features, the only way to tell them apart was the way they wore their blonde hair; Clara always sported a thick braid, while Cornelia’s was cut into a bob just below her ears. Then, there was Stefan, an elder Templar who said little but always seemed to know when his presence was required. He was completely bald, but sported a thick silver beard that was always kept cut short and well-maintained. Finally, there was Douglas, a short and stout young man who favored a shortbow and throwing knives but was also a capable fighter with a sword. Each of these Templars were Corporals, either from Starkhaven or from the surrounding area, who felt they could do more good on the move than they could holing up in a Chantry and hiding from the conflict. When Donovan and his friends had made plans to leave the city, these men and women who had made acquaintances with him over the previous weeks asked to accompany him; unable to refuse the extra blades, the Knight-Lieutenant had agreed.

The twins were the chattiest of the bunch, easily conversing with the other members of Donovan’s crew as though they’d known each other all their lives. Clara especially seemed to take a liking to Harwin in particular, as she often meandered from her sister’s side to talk with the platinum-haired, half elven man. Donovan would occasionally catch snippets of their conversations from his place at the head of the party, and judging from the distinctly one-sided nature of the discussions, Harwin did not know what to make of all this attention. Douglas seemed to fit in best with Sven and Emil, being of a similar age. He shared their dry wit, passing time with jokes and exchanging stories, most of the latter being embarrassing tales from training days. Bringing up the rear of the group was Jehanna, Dieter, and Stefan, the eldest of them keeping well away from the chattering youngsters. They did not need to converse to appreciate each other’s company and, like Donovan, took it upon themselves to keep an eye out for danger while the others relaxed their guard.

Despite their number having grown from six to ten, they were still wary of opposition while on the road. There was no telling how many more rebel mages were running rampant in the woods, and how many other dangers besides. As such, they traveled as swiftly as possible and camped only for short periods, rotating watch every four hours. They were careful with their lyrium, but were certain to take enough to handle any magical threats that presented themselves.

They had no idea they would face threats from their own kind.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

One of the local taverns in Tantervale was overcrowded. Donovan had expected this to be the case; between his company, the native residents, and the refugees who were fleeing the devastation in the countryside, there were almost too many people for the overworked wenches to keep up with. The din of the tavern was so loud that he almost had to shout for his comrades to hear him speak, and the sheer number of sweltering bodies in the place – despite the chill outdoors – created almost intolerable heat and stench that hung over them like an oppressive cloud. As they nursed watered-down ales in a shadowed corner, trying to keep away from the rowdiest of the rabble, the crew of Templars struggled to ignore the beads of sweat dripping down their scalps and the nose-curling odors of perspiration and cheap perfumes, among other things…

It was then that Jehanna motioned to get Donovan’s attention and pointed a gloved finger behind him. Turning about in his seat, Donovan suddenly saw another Templar headed towards them. A welcoming grin spread across his face, and he raised a hand to hail his nearing brother-in-arms…

…but as the man approached, pace unchecked as he disregarded the greeting, Donovan almost wished he hadn’t bothered.

The Templar’s armor was filthy, more so than from just mere travel. There were bloody stains all over it, and the plates bore signs of terrible abuse and neglect – unpolished, scratched, dented, rings of rust around the rivets. Over the breastplate was draped a chain that held a single piece of pulsating scarlet crystal. He wore an archer’s hood low over his face, but Donovan could still see a good bit of his countenance despite it, and a shiver ran up his spine as he beheld it; there were red streaks all over the Templar’s skin that pulsed and glowed, matching the same from the amulet, and his bloodshot eyes bore the same crimson glow.

When the Templar reached their table, he merely slapped a ragged bit of parchment face-down on the wood and growled, “General Samson calls you for duty. Do not disobey.”

At that, the Templar turned and departed, melting into the crowd and disappearing as quickly as he had appeared.

“Who in the Void was that?” Dieter’s eyes were narrowed as he scanned the throng, trying to find the strange Templar again.

“I…don’t know,” Donovan replied with brow furrowed, picking up the parchment gingerly, as if it might spontaneously combust in his hand. He turned it over and read:

 

_We are the Red._

_Meet us at the river at midnight._

_Join the storm that will cleanse the world, and never again know fear._

Below the note was a small, crude map pinpointing the meeting location the message mentioned.

“ _General_ Samson?” Harwin’s own brow knitted together. “Do you know who he was talking about? Because I don’t.”

“No, I don’t either,” Donovan frowned, passing the parchment to his companions and pointing. “Look at this.”

Jehanna read the parchment, her one good eye quickly passing over the page, and she pressed her lips together, “He is mad.”

After taking the paper from his mentor and reading it himself, Emil added, “Did you see that thing he was wearing? That red thing? That was lyrium. I know it was.”

“Wait, what?” Sven’s eyes were wide.

“Emil’s right. I felt it, too,” Donovan shook his head, visibly shuddering as he remembered the sensation. “It was just like lyrium feels but…strange. It felt…deeper?”

“You mean it was like that red shit from Kirkwall?” Dieter asked, looking truly unnerved as he returned his attention to his fellows, “The stuff that drove Meredith mad and, rumor has it, is growing right out of the stone now?”

“His _face_ ,” Emil continued, his voice so low it was hard to discern over the noise of the tavern. “Did you see his face? He looked sick… _diseased_.”

“What have our kinsmen done?” Cornelia’s question was soft as her blue eyes stared blankly, and she listlessly released the parchment onto the table.

“I’m not sure I want to know,” Donovan replied, shoving away his empty tankard, “But I do know this: they’re recruiting for something. The question is…do we try to get to the bottom of it, or walk away and pretend this whole encounter never happened?”

“We could go to the meeting place and see what they’re up to,” Harwin suggested with a shrug. “And if they try to rope us into anything, we can show them our blades.”

“We don’t know how many of them there are,” the usually-silent Stefan warned. “Best to just ignore this summons before we land ourselves in a trap we cannot wriggle out of.”

“That is a sound idea,” Jehanna remarked, turning up her tankard and draining it.

“But wait,” Sven leaned forward in his seat, and expression of concern writ on his countenance. “What if they’re up to something that will hurt someone…something like what happened at Kirkwall, or worse? If they’re using this red lyrium like I think they might be, they’re as nutters as Meredith. We know about them now, and we could stop them. If something happens and we stand by and do nothing…”

“Sven has a point,” Donovan agreed with a sigh.

“‘General Samson,’” Dieter snorted, “Sounds like some little upstart taking advantage of the war.”

“How much do you want to bet he isn’t at the meeting place?” Cornelia observed with a smirk.

“Right,” Donovan replied, “Even if we go to this meeting, chances are, we won’t find the leader.”

“Only lackeys,” Jehanna crossed her arms.

“Making it both dangerous _and_ pointless,” Stefan grumbled.

“Still,” Donovan mused aloud, “What if this _is_ a trap for our brethren? What if someone is luring them with promises of glory? Should we not investigate and stop them if we can?”

“Do we honestly have any obligation to those who we call our ‘brethren’ anymore?” Douglas suddenly asked. “We’re not even part of the Order that splintered from the Chantry at the Lord Seeker’s decree. _We’re_ the rebels and the outcasts to them.”

“Yes,” Clara replied, “But if the shoe were on the other foot, would we not like to have some of our like-minded fellow outcasts come to our aid if we needed it?”

Jehanna huffed impatiently, “Lieutenant…if you feel strongly about this, then I _will_ say that I will follow you. But I advise caution.”

After a moment, there was a chorus of “ayes” around him, albeit a few reluctant ones.

Donovan fell silent as he thought, staring at the parchment where it lay after Cornelia discarded it. Either option was not an easy choice. But something told him he needed to find out what sort of movement this strange Templar was part of and what their intentions were, if he could.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

The night air of Tantervale was still and frigid, the breath escaping from the Templars’ helms like steam from boiling kettles. Donovan led the way through the moonlit streets, heading for the area outside the city walls to which the stranger’s map directed him. The gentle clink and rattle of their armor heralded their presence, so there would be no approaching the location stealthily. Instead, they would have to be ready for whatever sort of encounter the Maker had in store for them, friendly or otherwise. Donovan hoped that they would not need their weapons, but he felt deep in his gut that the situation would eventually demand them, if not sooner, then later.

The Minanter River wound its way through the Marches and past Tantervale’s walls at a steady pace, the sound of the gently lapping water filling the air as they approached. Their boots and skirts crunched and brushed the dry winter grass, and every sound was painfully loud. With each step, Donovan prayed to the Maker that there was not an ambush waiting on them…

And then, suddenly, he saw them. Abruptly holding up a hand as he halted in his tracks, he waved them all down behind a low wall. Peering over it, they could see two groups of Templars on the opposite bank. One group consisted of more than a dozen men, each of them wearing those strange red amulets. The other group was only four of what appeared to be mere recruits, judging from their uniforms. Donovan’s party could not hear the conversation from where they crouched, but it was apparent from the gestures and the stances of both groups that tensions were mounting.

“Ready your weapons,” Donovan murmured, slowly sliding his own sword out of its sheath and slipping his shield onto his arm. He sensed that if these young recruits refused the strangers’ offer, then they would face some sort of retribution…

He was right. One of the recruits began backing away, hands held up in a gesture that betrayed his fear. That was when one of the stranger Templars, with a speed that was entirely unnatural, drew his blade and in one swift movement, ran the recruit through to the hilt.

Unbridled rage filled him.

“ _Attack!_ ” Donovan bellowed, leaping from his cover.

The shout seemed to take the strangers by surprise, and the recruits took full advantage of it. As the warriors of Donovan’s company splashed through the river towards their red-laced counterparts, the young ones ran for their lives in the opposite direction.

The ensuing battle went by in a complete blur. Donovan heard Jehanna and Emil loose arrows that whistled overhead as he and Harwin quickly flanked one of the larger warriors that Dieter charged head-on. The rest of his band crashed into the strange Templars with cries that pierced the night.

“Maker take you!”

“Traitors!”

Weapons clashed brutally, sparks flying from the force. Never had Donovan thought he would have to fight his own brethren, but it was plain that Order was a pseudo-family no longer; the war had fractured it into too many parts, until the Templars did not even recognize each other as comrades-in-arms anymore. These diseased-looking ones certainly did not, fighting Donovan’s group with a savage fury and unnatural strength. It was not long before the mad Templars were on the verge of overwhelming them, attempting to push them back towards the river and into the water where they would have a greater advantage…

…and then the recruits returned.

Two were warriors, throwing themselves into the fray alongside Donovan and his men while their friend joined Jehanna and Emil in raining death from a distance. With their added force, the two sides were evened out in number, even if not in strength. Still, the recruits fought with all the fury of the more experienced Corporals, their desire for vengeance fueling them as much as their fear.

At last, after what seemed like an eternity of blow after blow, parry after parry, and yelp after cry, the battlefield fell still.

None of the stranger Templars remained alive by the end of it, and there were heavy injuries among the others. Though the archers remained unharmed, the melee fighters among them had all taken hits. Dieter and Stefan had received the most harm, blood trickling from wounds in their sides. One of the straps on Stefan’s breastplate had been completely severed, leaving the metal dangling from the strip of leather under his other arm. Dieter had taken a particularly heavy blow to the abdomen, and his own breastplate was crunched inwards just below his ribs. Douglas, Clara, and Cornelia each had multiple bloody slashes crisscrossing their arms above their gauntlets. Sven and Harwin’s shields were destroyed, nearly shattered from the force of the blows they had blocked, and the former’s arm had been dislocated from the repeated impacts.

As for Donovan himself, he had thought he had been fortunate enough to escape injury until he felt a deep throbbing and stinging sensation in his right thigh. Looking down, he noticed he had been slashed cleanly from just above his knee nearly to his groin, where no plates protected. The cut was not very deep, but it was bleeding profusely, running in rivulets down his boot.

 “Maker, what is… _agh_!”

Clara suddenly dropped one of her daggers with a hiss as though it had scalded her and jumped backwards in fright. There, in the streak of blood that smeared the blade, was a slowly-growing red crystal. That prompted all of them to check their own weapons; Sven immediately tossed aside his axe, and two of the recruits dropped their swords as well.

“Abandon all of them!” Donovan barked, throwing his blade to the dirt, “They’re tainted!”

“That _is_ red lyrium,” Jehanna confirmed solemnly as she peered down at the dead. “It has to be. There is no other explanation.”

“Maker,” Donovan breathed, “What has happened to them? What have they done?”

“It’s in their blood,” Emil explained. “So it stands to reason they’re taking it like we do the blue stuff.”

“Must’ve what made them so damned strong,” Dieter remarked, wincing as he flexed his arm and cradled his side.

“T-that’s what they told us,” one of the recruits spoke up, removing his helmet and revealing a pale face with wide green eyes, “That we would be stronger…strong enough to stop any mage. That we wouldn’t have to be afraid of them anymore.”

Donovan turned his helmed head towards the green-eyed young man and replied solemnly, “If that is indeed red lyrium, then the only thing they were promising you was madness.”

“Yes,” the other nearby recruit said softly, a female voice resounding within her own helm as she looked down at their fallen comrade. “And we saw it all too late.” Turning back towards Donovan, she dipped her head in deference, “Thank you for saving us…Knight-Lieutenant? I…I’m not sure we deserved it. But please…we have potions and bandages. Allow us to help you. It’s the least we can do.”

The recruits then helped them heal and tend to their wounds as much as they could. They could not stop thanking Donovan and his companions all the while, explaining that they had answered the strange Templars’ call due to their numerous fears – about the future, about the mages, about what would happen if they ignored the message. They were left alone and unsure of themselves after their Circle had collapsed, leaving them amongst the few survivors.

Sighing, Donovan stepped carefully over to their fallen fellow. Removing his helmet and kneeling beside the body, he asked quietly, “Who was your friend?”

“Ser Fynnlan,” the marksman recruit replied. “I think he was from Ansburg.”

“Very well,” Donovan stood again, “Bring Ser Fynnlan’s body with us to the Chantry so that he may be given proper funerary rites. Afterwards, get cleaned up and take some time to get yourselves together again. Then, we’re going to get out of here before more of those bastards show up.”

With that, he turned from them and marched back for the city gates, all the while thinking the chances of him ever seeing his sister alive again were becoming slimmer and slimmer.


	11. Chapter 11

_Haven, Ferelden; Nubulis (Drakonis), 9:41 Dragon_

“Start again!”

_“Ser!”_

Cullen crossed his arms as he examined the nearly two-dozen recruits under his command. When the Divine’s official call for the Conclave had finally been delivered at the beginning of the month, he had received more responses from Haven’s residents and villagers from nearby settlements than he had expected. His small handful of trainees had swelled from a mere handful to a decently-sized guard unit. As their numbers grew, he slowly shifted the duties of the mercenary companies from guarding both the village and the Temple of Sacred Ashes to concentrating solely on the security of the temple; these new recruits would handle Haven itself. Josephine, true to her word, had managed to convince a few nearby nobles from both Orlais and Ferelden to send small retinues to support their cause, but they would not arrive for another week or more. Until then, Cullen would have to focus his attention on getting these raw recruits up to par, and quickly.

“One!” Rylen bellowed, calling the cadence for the routine he had set up for them to practice that afternoon.

 _“One!”_ the regiment answered in unison, settling into their guard positions.

“Two!”

_“Two!”_

“Three!”

A frown pulled at Cullen’s countenance as he observed the recruits’ positions, and he moved to the young man at the front of the column nearest him as Rylen continued his intonations on the other side of the group.

“No, no, look here,” he stopped the youth and carefully took his blade hand in his own, manually adjusting the recruit’s hold on the sword he was squeezing to death. “You’re choking up on the crossguard too much. Back your hand up to allow for movement, and don’t grip it quite so hard.”

“S-ser,” the young man nodded nervously in understanding.

He clapped his hand reassuringly on the youth’s shoulder as he moved away again, “Just keep practicing. You’ll get there.”

“Y-yes, ser.”

The recruit couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen years old. Cullen himself had been well into his Templar training at that age. Those who comprised this small unit of recruits, however, had not, and transforming them from farmers and hunters into well-trained soldiers in a matter of months would be difficult to say the least. The most imposing weapons most had wielded were knives and the occasional bow; the youngest among them had never been exposed to arms of war in their lives. Still, they did have enthusiasm on their side, as they were spurred by a desire to see peace in their homeland. They had witnessed the end of the Fifth Blight only ten years previous but were already faced with another world-consuming calamity, and they wanted to put a stop to it quickly, before more lives were lost – before their loved ones became the next victims of Templar and mage insanity.

But first, they had to know how to handle a proper blade, and that would take time…time Cullen feared they did not have.

The Conclave would be held in the fall, and the Templar and mage delegations would trickle in over the course of the summer. Most of the recruits would need to be ready by the end of the month, at the latest, when the first of the attendees would arrive in Haven. They would be bolstered by the guards from the local nobles, but they would need to continually take in new recruits to accommodate the growing number of Conclave delegates and observers. Thus, he would be constantly rotating and training troops in greater and greater numbers for the majority of the year in order to ensure the safety of everyone present.

He was determined to succeed, for all their sakes. Failure was not an option.

There was a part of him that still wondered why Seeker Cassandra had chosen him of all people for the job. She had said it was because of his loyalty and dedication to doing what was right. Yet he had been wrong about what was right before. There was a time in his life when he thought it right to treat mages as less-than-human because of his personal experiences at Kinloch Hold. There was a time when he thought that the Templars were right about everything. He had been wrong, and his eyes had been opened far too late.

How could the Seeker honestly entrust this task to someone with such a history of narrow-mindedness and poor judgment? There was no way that she did not know about his past and about his views. It was true that he had striven to redeem himself in the aftermath of Meredith’s defeat, but he was not sure he had done so quite yet. Did she believe that he had? Or did she believe that this work for the Divine would further the process?

These self-critical thoughts plagued him even as he headed to the tavern that evening, in need of a drink after a long days’ work. He had yet to visit the Singing Maiden, the settlement’s recently refurbished establishment, having had no reason and little time to do so before now. After an especially intensive day of training, however, he felt he could use a drink to help ease his nerves and tensed muscles.

“Oh, hello!” The tavern owner, a heavyset red-haired young woman with large eyes, turned and hurried over to the bar when she heard him approach. “Something I can get you? I’ve got some stew on the fire and there’s a fresh cask of ale. Just ale though,” she laughed nervously. “Won’t be anything else until some more shipments arrive, or at least that’s what Lady Josephine said. That _is_ her name, isn’t it?” Her appended question was more to herself than to him, as she glanced away with her brow furrowed before returning her attention to him.

He was about to answer her when, suddenly, she stuck her hand out for him to shake, “I’m Flissa.”

He took it, “Cullen.”

Her eyes went wide and her mouth formed an _O_ in shock. “Oh, you’re the commander! Maker, I’m so _stupid_.” She smacked her hand to her forehead, “Sorry! I’m new here. I-In case you haven’t noticed. Just got here last week. Leliana said your soldiers needed a good place to wind down and someone to keep it running. Always wanted my own tavern, so I decided to sign up. Glad to help however I can.”

“Just an ale, please,” Cullen finally answered her initial question, largely ignoring her jittery babble and attributing it to eagerness.

“Oh, yes, right, sorry!” Flissa laughed nervously again and bent to fetch a clean tankard from under the counter, “Not used to being around so many important people. I get a little chatty sometimes…” she trailed as she filled the flagon from the cask behind her.

“You mentioned the soldiers spending time here,” Cullen remarked, nodding his thanks when she set the frothing tankard in front of him.

“Yes, what of it?” she asked, eyes widening again.

“Just let me know if they get too disruptive,” he replied. “‘Winding down’ is one thing. Causing a ruckus is another.”

“Oh, of course,” she nodded and smiled, “Thanks. I-I’ll send word if I get any trouble.”

At that moment, the tavern door opened with a loud creak, and a few soldiers, as well as Knight-Captain Rylen, ducked inside, a draft of cool air following. The Templar glanced around and grinned as he caught Cullen’s gaze, “Well, fancy seeing you here, Commander!” Meandering over to where Cullen sat at the bar, Rylen gestured to Flissa, “Some of that stew and an ale, if you will.” Turning back to the commander, he added, “Getting a table. Join me?”

“Certainly.”

Cullen rose, leaving the coin for his drink on the counter and waiting for Flissa to fill the Knight-Captain’s order, then followed Rylen to a table in the corner, tankard in hand. As the latter sat down with his meal, he suddenly asked, “Copper for your thoughts, Commander?”

Cullen’s brow furrowed as he took a seat opposite his second-in-command, “Sorry?”

Rylen chuckled, “You’ve been looking like someone stole your sweets all day now. Something bothering you?”

Cullen unclasped his vambraces and set them aside on the table with a long sigh, leaning back in his chair, “I’ve been wondering how I got here, is all.” He hoped that Rylen would not inquire more than that, but he knew how perceptive the Starkhavener was.

To his relief, Rylen merely took a bite of stew and snorted, “You and me both. It’s a bit surreal at times.”

Cullen slowly nodded in agreement as his comrade ate. Several moments of silence followed before the Templar added, “You think this thing will actually work? The Conclave? That everyone’ll just come together and hash everything out in front of the Divine, and everything will go back to normal?”

Glancing to where Flissa was busy tending to another patron, then looking down into his tankard, Cullen slowly shook his head, “No. Peace will not come easily, of that I am certain. This is just the beginning of a long and difficult conflict ahead. The Conclave is a formality. The real work will come after.”

Rylen huffed, “What I figured. Never can be easy, can it?”

Cullen felt the corner of his mouth tug into a smirk, “Never.”


	12. Chapter 12

_Somewhere in the Free Marches; Nubulis (Drakonis), 9:41 Dragon_

A cold rain pelted the gaggle of mages as they followed their leader like ducklings through the muddy forest. Their robes, soaked with water, threadbare and torn, clung to their skin as they went, chilling them to the bone and eliciting shivers from their tightened lips. Occasionally, someone’s hissed curse would signal to the others they had tripped, slipped, or had their clothing torn even more from the broken branches and brambles that impeded their progress. Misery was writ on all their faces in the form of furrowed brows, squinted eyes, and despondent sideways glances.

Had they not been mages, they might have gotten away with traveling on the road like normal people, perhaps even sheltering in a tavern until this early spring shower passed. Unfortunately, they were not “normal” people, nor could they convince anyone who met them of such a thing; no one could ever believe that the staves they carried, bladed on one end and sporting elaborate headpieces, were mere walking sticks, and the blazon of the Circle upon their richly-embroidered robes, the only garments they possessed, was a dead giveaway to anyone with half a brain. And so, they were forced to trudge through the woods in slippers with worn-out soles and make camp where the light of their fires could not be seen by either travelers or settlements.

Such had been their lives since Ostwick’s Circle of Magi fell. For months they wandered the wilderness of the Free Marches, eking out a meager existence while they avoided confrontations with enemies of all sorts – rebel mages who sought aid in battling the Templars, crazed Templars seeking to destroy every mage they saw, and everyone else caught in the middle of this preposterous war. They had, on occasion, managed to garner the sympathy of a traveler’s innkeeper or two, who spared them stale bread crusts and old, flea-ridden blankets. But that was as much charity as they had been able to safely obtain from anyone. It was mostly their magic that provided warmth, food, and safety; the very thing that most people feared about them was the only thing that would keep them alive.

Despite their miraculous self-sufficiency, there was only so long that they could live in such a manner, and they all knew it. Little by little, it was wearing them down.

Danlan had never imagined he would end up like this. Born in Ostwick’s alienage, the elf had thought things were looking up for him when he was taken into the Circle at the age of nine. Living in the tower was like living in a palace compared to his mother’s hovel in the slums. At the Circle, he was warm, clean, fed, and clothed, and had constant security. Not only that, but compared to other Circles he had heard tale of, Ostwick was a positive haven. It was an institution of learning with an almost serene atmosphere. The Templars of Ostwick were primarily silent guards; over time, with enough practice, one could convince themselves that they were merely ornamental suits of armor along the walls, and after a couple of decades of ignoring them, they almost didn’t exist. Furthermore, most of the Templars and mages had grown up together and been around each other their entire lives. Was there friendship between them? Perhaps it could be called that. More like an unspoken accord, really. But as long as the mages minded their own business and kept their noses clean, there was nothing to worry about. Most certainly nothing to start a war over.

The Knight-Commander and the First Enchanter had done a brilliant job in keeping the Circle of Ostwick separated from the boiling conflict that had begun in Orlais and now spread across southern Thedas like wildfire. And yet, in the waning months of the previous year, the small sect of the Libertarian fraternity at Ostwick had seen fit to finally join the mage anarchy that had erupted all over the world. The dreamlike state in which they dwelled was shattered as Senior Enchanters were murdered in cold blood, the Templars retaliated, and the tower instantly dissolved into a massacre.

He wasn’t sure how he had gotten out of there alive. If it wasn’t the paranoid Templars trying to kill him, it was his own kind for not joining with them. He and a band of other mages, including Archmage Verana, had managed to group together to defend themselves, but with the tower burning and the city alerted to the chaos, there was only so long they could stay in the area. In the end, they ran, fleeing through the streets before the guards and Templars could pursue them and only barely escaping into the countryside beyond. There, they began their long, meandering journey across the Marches, and along the way, expanded their number by a handful, taking a few refugee mages from Markham under their wing for their protection.

Here they were, still together and searching for a safe haven to harbor them while the war raged around them.

It had only been a few days since they had caught word that Knight-Commander Brycen in Hasmal was offering sanctuary to any Circle mage who wished to seek asylum from the conflict. It was a ray of hope they could not deny, one that Verana, their designated leader, grasped onto. Determined to find a place where they could stay and weather the mage-Templar storm, she turned them towards the city where Brycen yet maintained some semblance of order, occasionally emerging from the woods to find a roadsign and quickly skirting back into the trees when distant travelers could be spotted.

As Archmage, Verana had become the group’s de facto leader from rank alone. Her title – an honorary one, but one that still held significant weight among mages – essentially marked her as equivalent to a Senior Enchanter in prestige, although she did not have the experience required for the position. Despite this, she had demonstrated great talent and control over her power, garnering the respect of the upper echelon of the Circle, and thus they had seen fit to grant her the honorable distinction.

It was only during the Circle disaster and the days following that Danlan was able to witness their reasoning firsthand.

He had never seen someone wield magic like she did. The rest of them were fully graduated mages, of course, and competent ones at that, even though two of them had only passed their Harrowing weeks before the collapse of the Circle. The difference was in how they handled their arcane gifts.

It was almost indescribable. Verana’s magic was a tool, a weapon, a means to an end, and it was obvious that she viewed it as such. She did not revel in it, nor did she let it define her. The rest of them, by comparison, merely played with it like a toy and were almost afraid to use it in any serious capacity. For them, magic was exciting, even exhilarating…like dabbling in something forbidden. For her, it was merely a natural extension of her being that was nothing to brag about. Simply put, she didn’t _act_ like a mage, and that was something that Danlan found at once strange and awe-inspiring.

They had not spoken to each other much when at the Circle, as their interests lay in two different studies of magic; she favored spells of storm and spirit, while he focused on fire and entropy. Since the collapse, however, he had made better acquaintances with her, and he hoped he had found a steadfast friend in the young Archmage. It was only then that he found out she was one of the local Bann’s daughters and that she had a brother in the Templar Order. She did not speak much of her family, but what she did say about her Templar brother was favorable, and he could tell by the distant look in her eyes when the conversation drifted to him that she missed him deeply.

 _Andraste, those eyes_.

She was undeniably pretty for a _shem_ , at least in his opinion, but her eyes had to be her most beautiful and distinguishing feature. In some lights, they looked blue, and in others, they looked purple, but in reality, they were both. When he had casually remarked about them one quiet evening, she said that she knew of no other people in her family who possessed such a unique color. She had told him that her father’s eyes were a dark rich blue, like sapphire gems, and that she must have inherited her eye color partially from him. She theorized, however, that her magic must have warped the tint somewhat. At the time, it seemed as plausible an explanation as any, and it made him wonder if the same thing had made his own eyes half-brown, half-green.

Danlan’s reminiscing was halted suddenly as he was abruptly shoved face-down into the earth, hitting the hard ground with a _thud_ and a _whoosh_ as the air was knocked out of his lungs.

“Damnit, Dan, pay attention!”

Simmy, another alienage elf, hissed in his ear as she pointed with a dirty finger over his shoulder, beyond a gnarled root. The sounds of battle could be heard in the distance, and Danlan squinted past thick brambles and dense trees to see magic flashing against lyrium power – a fight between mages and Templars. Glancing back at the rest of his companions, who were crouched behind fallen logs and boulders, he could see them looking on with grim expressions. Verana’s face in particular bore a mixture of disgust and disappointment, her lips pressed together as she watched the battle from over a ridge of earth.

“Should we do something?” one mage whispered.

Another snorted, “I say let ‘em kill each other.”

Verana sighed, “We don’t know if either side belongs to the loyalists or the rebels. Best to stay out of it and wait for the winning side to move on.”

“ _Andraste’s tits!_ ” Simmy suddenly cursed. Returning his attention to the fight, Danlan’s eyes widened as he saw what she saw, and his stomach churned.

Abominations. The Templars had been winning the fight until one of the mages resorted to blood magic to turn the tide. And turn the tide it did. The rest followed suit, allowing themselves to be possessed by demons in a suicidal move just to ensure that their foes did not survive this encounter. Rage and Desire had answered the most strongly, it seemed, judging from the appearance of the twisted masses of flesh into which the mages had transformed.

“The fight’s moving this way,” Danlan warned.

“Stay calm,” Verana instructed quietly. “Just stay still and calm.”

As the battle quickly drew to its conclusion, the elf could only hold his breath and watch, almost unblinking. The last of the Templars roasted alive inside his own armor as the Rage abominations bore down upon him, his power unable to stand against theirs any longer. The man’s unearthly screams tore through the observing mages like a knife, some of them clamping their hands over their ears and squeezing their eyes shut as they attempted to block out the horrific noise.

And then, all was still, the only sound in the air that of the softly-falling rain against the dead leaves of the forest floor.

Verana watched the abominations intently with her blue-violet stare. Slowly, she shifted position to get a better look, holding a slender finger to her lips to keep the others hushed. Danlan, watching along with her, wondered what the abominations would do now that their immediate foes had been defeated. What _did_ an abomination do outside of combat, anyway? All the books he had read on the subject suggested they would seek to make more of themselves by whatever means necessary. But what of their immediate behavior when no other targets were readily available?

His curiosity was abruptly squelched as the abominations began heading their way with purpose.

“They sense us!” Verana hissed. “Ready yourselves!”

Up the mages leapt, staves in hand and glowing with power. Verana was the first to strike, electricity swirling like a storm around her before cracking at the approaching abominations like a whiplash. A scintillating cage sprang around them, trapping them inside with the threat of severe consequences if any tried to escape its bounds. A rage abomination tested the bonds and immediately regretted it, recoiling when lightning seared it and sent it flying backwards into the cold earth.

Seeing the handful of demonic creatures temporarily trapped gave the others confidence, and a swarm of spells descended upon the abominations. Luckily, most of the mages had paid attention in their classes and followed Verana’s lead by unleashing lightning. Or, if they were better with it, they used frost against their demonic foes. Ice and electricity flew through the air in bright streaks of pale blue and purple, peppering the caged abominations that were ensnared not a hundred yards ahead of them. Danlan found himself using the same spells as Verana, as frost magic had never come easily to him. The two simultaneously launched arcs of lightning that crackled audibly as they departed their staves.

In a fight for survival, now, the abominations quickly retaliated with force, sending a wave of fire crashing outwards, dispelling Verana’s cage and simultaneously erecting a shimmering shield of energy around them before advancing upon the mages once more.

“Keep at it!” Verana shouted. “We can stop them!”

Despite her words of encouragement, some of the mages began backing up, fear almost palpable in the air as it gripped them with icy tendrils – even Danlan felt its chill in his veins. Refusing to give ground, however, Verana countered the force field with her own powerful dispelling magic, a rush of green flashing around the abominations and dissolving the blueish shield in an instant. Before they could do anything more, Danlan reached deep within and let his magic surge forth with exhilarating speed, a brilliant burst of electrical energy discharging from his body and crashing into the demons. He couldn’t help but laugh aloud as he saw the magic bounce and dance between the abominations, sizzling as it struck each of them. Beside him, Simmy let out a whoop as her _Winter’s Grasp_ effectively froze one particular rage abomination to the spot, and a follow-up lightning bolt from another mage then rent it to pieces.

Slowly but surely, the mages managed to finish off the remaining weakened abominations, the last of them evaporating in foul black mist when a burst from Verana’s staff sent its possessor back across the Veil. The crackle of magic abruptly stopped, and for a moment, they merely stood there, breathless from the battle and trembling with raw energy.

“We did it!” Simmy threw her arms around Danlan’s neck. He chuckled and hugged her back, and many of the other mages did the same, so relieved and happy to be alive and unharmed.

At last, however, once everyone was finished rejoicing, Verana returned her staff to its holster on her back and shook her head, pushing her damp bangs out of her eyes. “All right, everyone. Let’s go. We need to get to Hasmal quickly.” Her voice, Danlan noted, was tinged with exhaustion, and he, too, felt fatigue creep up on him now that the adrenaline of battle was ebbing away.

He followed Verana’s footsteps with Simmy at his side, who used her staff as a cane to aid her through the difficult terrain. After a few moments, he heard his fellow elf mutter quietly, “I’m so sick of this.”

He met her jade eyes grimly and nodded in agreement. “So am I.”


	13. Chapter 13

_The road to Kirkwall, the Free Marches; Nubulis (Drakonis), 9:41 Dragon_

A few days after their encounter with the strange red lyrium Templars, Donovan and his fellows decided it was time to leave the Free Marches behind them in search of better prospects elsewhere. Their new charges – the recruits they had rescued outside Tantervale’s walls – were more than agreeable to the idea, wanting to leave the location of their traumatic experiences well behind them. After some hashing out of possible destinations, they settled on sailing to Orlais, planning to journey first south to Kirkwall and then catch a ship to the Empire from there.

With the Maker’s blessing, they had managed to travel for a little over a week with no major complications. The weather was beginning to warm somewhat, and the skies became clearer and brighter, signaling the start of spring. This small change in the atmosphere did much to lift their spirits, and the group was even cheerful as they made their way down the road to Kirkwall, the youngest among them, as usual, chatting up a storm, while the older ones kept their eyes peeled for trouble.

But, as luck would have it, this lightened mood would not last.

It was a particularly pleasant morning, punctuated by the lilting sounds of singing birds and chattering woodland animals full in the throes of springtime pursuits, when they spotted the flash of silver armor ahead of them on the road.

“Hey look, it’s more Templars!” Sven remarked, pointing a gauntleted finger.

“Great,” Donovan muttered flatly inside his winged helm. Ever since their hostile encounter with the last batch of Templars, they had all felt the odd compulsive need to wear all of their protective gear at all times.

“Do you have to sound so morose about it?” Emil teased, punching Donovan in the arm. “They could be just like us, you know.”

“Who wants to bet they’re not?” Dieter growled from behind them.

“Maker, why did it have be this way?” Donovan asked, mostly to himself, before raising a hand in greeting to the approaching Templars – a little over a half-dozen men. Taking a deep breath, he addressed them with a raised voice that rang inside his helm, “Hail brothers!”

There were several moments of awkward silence before their leader hesitantly responded in kind, “Hail! Andraste smile on you.”

As the two parties drew closer and closer, they slowed their pace, glancing between opposing members cautiously. In any other circumstances, it would be a relief to meet fellow Templars on the road. Now, however, they seemed to be sizing each other up…gauging how much of a threat they were to each other. It made Donovan nauseous, even as he tried to keep his reply light and cordial. “And you, friends. What brings you to these parts, if I may ask?” He regretted the question as soon as it left his mouth, however, as he was certain that he knew the answer already.

The leader propped one gloved hand on his sword hilt, “Hunting mages, as the Lord Seeker expected, of course. How goes your own search for the fiends…” he trailed as he cocked his head, examining Donovan’s appearance. “Knight-Lieutenant?” He finished as he felt more certain about Donovan’s rank.

He knew it. _More of these types, then_. The leader’s words made Donovan’s skin prickle with irritation. “We’re not hunting anyone,” he replied shortly. “We go our own way.”

The other Templar leader lifted his helmed head somewhat, stiffening and shifting his weight from one foot to the other as his fingers flexed atop his sword’s pommel. His voice bore a note of irritation as he answered, “Knight-Lieutenant, you must remember that your duty is to-”

“Don’t _tell_ me what my duty is!” Donovan snapped, jerking a thumb at the road behind him. “Go on your way and do what you will, however foolish, but leave us out of it. We want no part of this ill-conceived war.”

The other Templars glanced among themselves, and their leader began slowly pulling his sword from its scabbard, the sound a long, menacing scrape of metal. “Well, well. Your rank means _nothing_ after all. Prepare yourselves; it looks like we have rebels on our hands, boys.”

Donovan’s grip tightened on his own sword, and he could hear his comrades shifting behind him, ready to pull their weapons, too. “And just what are you planning on doing about it, _ser_?”

“If you won’t follow the Order, then you are as good as a mage sympathizer, and sympathizers might as well be the same as the damned mages themselves,” the leader responded, brandishing his blade at Donovan. “It’s your weak-willed kind that let this happen! I will show you how we deal with traitors to the Order!”

Donovan’s eyes flashed as he drew his blade in answer and shrugged his shield upon his arm. “Maker take you! _You_ are the traitors! You, who forgot what we were and defiled our purpose!”

They charged together like armored bulls, roaring and crashing against one another. Arrows whistled, shields clashed, blades rang out, and atop it all were their battlecries to the Maker, the cacophony sending birds into flight overhead. The more experienced in Donovan’s company kept the recruits at bay for their protection, forbidding them from entering the fray as the veterans took the brunt of the attack. Donovan made it a point to take on the leader of the opposing company himself, gradually pushing his foe backwards with the sheer force of his attacks.

A blind rage had overtaken him. These fools were a large part of the reason why the world falling apart at the seams. Why he and his company lived in constant motion and constant wariness, never able to find peace or rest. Why he felt completely lost and without purpose. Why he might never see his beloved sister ever again. Why she might very well be dead – the only good that ever came out of his family.

Donovan wasn’t aware of his surroundings at all until it was suddenly over, the crimson-stained bodies of their enemies littering the road. He was gripping his bloody sword so tightly that his knuckles hurt, and his breaths were ragged inside his helmet. In a fit of pique, he abruptly tore the helm from his head and tossed it aside, the metal clattering loudly against a cobblestone. His sword and shield followed it before he spun and marched towards a nearby boulder that bordered the road, kneeling before it and clasping his hands atop it in prayer. His limbs shook from adrenaline and rage, but he forced his eyes to close as the Chant of Light came to his lips, tumbling from them with practiced ease and almost without thought. For the longest time, it was the only sound that could be heard, as if his companions were afraid of making any noise lest his wrath fall upon them in kind. Finally, however, after what seemed like hours, Donovan felt a hand gently squeeze his, and he opened his eyes to see Jehanna’s weathered face before him as she knelt on the other side of the rock.

“You’re doing the right thing,” she said softly, in a reassuring, almost soothing tone that she rarely took. There was an unusual gentleness in her one good eye, and she offered him a small smile. “You have been ever since the Circle fell. We wouldn’t be with you, otherwise.”

“She’s right,” Douglas added, cautiously approaching from his left. “It’s people like you in the upper ranks who give us hope for the Order. We’re sticking with you, no matter what happens. Even if we never find anyone else like us,” he continued, glancing to the others for affirmation, “we’ve got each other. If we’re the only ones who remember the way things are supposed to be, so be it.”

“And if anyone tries to stop us,” Dieter rumbled, “then they end up like these shitheads. _They’re_ the traitors, just like you said. Not you. Never forget that.”

Slowly, Donovan nodded, closing his eyes again and taking deep calming breaths, his trembling gradually subsiding. After a few moments, he replied softly, “Thank you.”

Swallowing, he stood and gathered his equipment before stepping over the corpses they were leaving behind and continuing down the road to Kirkwall.

“Come on. We’ve still a long way to go.”

With that, the small company of loyalist Templars continued their journey, a dark cloud settling over them all once more. No matter how much they tried to shrug it off, it seemed that it would always find its way back to them, and Donovan wondered if they were destined to be burdened by such darkness forever.


	14. Chapter 14

_Haven, Ferelden; Molioris (Bloomingtide), 9:41 Dragon_

Springtime in Ferelden was transitioning quickly towards summer when the first delegates to the Conclave finally arrived. The occasion was as tumultuous as Cullen had expected it to be; with the raging hostilities between the mages and the Templars and the self-same antagonism between both parties and the general populace, it took every single one of the commander’s hastily-trained recruits to maintain order in the simmering kettle that was Haven. Due to necessity, the two sides had been physically separated from each other and were forbidden to interact during their tenure at the settlement. What few loyalist Templars who served Haven’s Chantry kept the rebel mages well-guarded in its depths, while the soldiers under Cullen’s command made sure the rebel Templars remained under watch in a camp outside the town.

The only ones among them who seemed to be enjoying themselves despite all this misery were Josephine and Varric. Just as Leliana had predicted, noble representatives arrived not long before the first of the mages and Templars. Josephine had immediately set about arranging sufficient quarters for them in the village’s hostel, and the ambassador spent most of her time seeing that their endless needs were met. Furthermore, as soon as these fussy nobles caught wind that a world-renowned author was in town, Varric had become their other primary entertainer. If he wasn’t spending his time autographing books, the dwarf was answering the endless barrage of questions from fans of his most popular publication, the _Tale of the Champion_. Like Josephine, the dwarf seemed to thrive in such an environment, possibly even happy for a distraction from his current situation. Elements of hostility between Varric and Cassandra still lingered. The dwarf had not forgotten about his initial treatment at the Seeker’s hands, the wounds from which were still faintly visible on his face. The two mostly kept their distance from each other, and any interaction between them was strictly limited to gathering information on the current situation.

It was a rather fine spring morning when Cullen and Cassandra, who had been heading to the Chantry after supervising a training routine with Knight-Captain Rylen, observed Varric conversing with a very young noble lady near the tavern. They kept their distance as they paused near the gates, and Cullen casually remarked, “He still thinks he’s a prisoner, you know.”

Cassandra let out her breath in an irritated huff, glancing away briefly before slowly lifting her dark brown eyes to meet the commander’s gaze again. “Perhaps he is. I certainly won’t let him leave the town, but it is because I cannot trust him not to run away and never return. And I can’t let him do that when I need him here to talk with the Divine. I want him to tell his story, the story of the Champion of Kirkwall, directly to Justinia while the Conclave is in session. I think he can clear up many misunderstandings.”

Cullen crossed his arms. “You honestly think that will make a difference? There are many who believe the _Tale_ is just a work of fiction, and would continue to do so no matter what he says.” He crinkled his nose as he remembered a certain descriptive passage of himself. “And I have to admit, there are parts of it that are more than a little bit off the mark.”

A look of surprise flashed across the Seeker’s face, her brows rising. “You’ve read it?”

“When I needed a good laugh,” Cullen replied flatly. “He gave me a signed copy when it was first published, even when I told him I didn’t want it. I left it in Kirkwall with all the other things I never wanted to see again.”

The Seeker snorted and shook her head. “I understand. My initial research on him was quite the… _experience_.”

“Don’t tell me,” Cullen smirked, “it was-”

“- _Hard in Hightown_.” They both finished simultaneously, after which they chuckled heartily at each other’s responses.

It was one of the few times Cullen had been able to see beyond the veneer of cold detachedness and imperious authority that Cassandra seemed to perpetually wear. Their working together over the previous few months had enabled them to make better acquaintances with each other, and their initial stiff and almost hierarchical relationship gradually gave way to mutual respect and even camaraderie. It was obvious that Cassandra was earnest in her service to the Divine, and that she had dedicated herself to helping Justinia stop this rebellion against the Chantry, not for the Chantry’s sake, but for the sake of the people whose lives were put in jeopardy. He could also tell that she detested Chantry politics by the way she conducted herself amongst the other servants of the Divine, particularly the Grand Chancellor. Thus, in her, he had found a sort of kindred spirit, somewhat to his surprise.

As they resumed their walk to the village Chantry, leaving Varric and his growing audience of admirers behind, the Seeker continued, “I have found a few more recruits for the cause among the mages. There is one Master Taigen and his assistant, Adan. Both are accomplished herbalists who seek asylum from this war to practice their craft in peace. I thought that we might need their skills, so I offered them work.”

Cullen nodded in understanding. “I am certain they will be required sooner or later. There is never a training session without an injury of some sort, and the more mages and Templars arrive, the more dangerous the situation in the area becomes. Not to mention those pilgrims arriving with ailments in need of treatment.”

“Yes,” Cassandra agreed. “Those were my thoughts as well.”

At that moment, they reached the Chantry doors, where Leliana had just emerged. When she saw Cullen, she moved towards him and offered a small smile. “There you are. Commander, if I might have your ear, for a moment?”

Cassandra nodded to her fellow Hand and continued on into the Chantry proper, while Leliana ushered him in and then pulled him to a side alcove to speak with him privately.

“Yes, Sister? What is it?” he asked, rather curious as to what she wished to talk about.

She leaned her shoulder against the wall and crossed her hands in front of her. “With the network of spies I have been building, I’ve been able to gather some information on the visitors traveling to the Conclave. Not all of them are pilgrims or mage and Templar delegates. There are mercenaries coming here, too…some from as far away as Nevarra and the Free Marches. You will no doubt want a company or two more for your own purposes, though it might be wise to use some of them for scouting and message delivery.” She sighed, glancing away before returning her sharp blue gaze to him. “I lost a few of my agents last week in a confrontation with rebel Templars. They were delivering the news of the Conclave.”

“And the rebels objected,” Cullen supplied, lip curling in disgust. Maker, he hated what the Order had become.

Leliana shook her head in similar repugnance. “A reminder that there are just as many who wish to obstruct peace efforts as there are those who wish to see them to fruition. Despite our efforts, this will be an uphill battle for a while yet.”

“There is a successful strategy for almost every scenario,” Cullen tried to reassure her. “It is just a matter of finding it.”

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a flash of gold. Glancing to his right, he noticed Josephine headed towards them, all smiles as she cautiously approached.

“Something you want, Josie?” Leliana asked, her tone suddenly much warmer.

The ambassador inclined her head to Cullen. “Only to extend an invitation to the Commander for our little chat later.”

“Oh, that’s right!” the spymaster turned back towards him. “Josie’s set up a little supper in her office this evening.”

“I worked with Leliana years ago in Orlais,” Josephine elaborated, “but I know you and Lady Pentaghast only by reputation. I would very much like to spend some time getting to know the both of you, if you likewise have any time to spare.”

He rubbed the back of his neck as he thought for a moment. “I…well. I could do that tomorrow morning, I suppose,” he muttered, mostly to himself before answering her directly, “I think I can spare some time. When would you like for us to arrive?”

She grinned widely, and he noticed that her glittering eyes smiled with her mouth. “Perfect! About six of the evening should do. I look forward to your being there, Commander.”

With that, the ambassador bowed and turned to leave, a bit of a bounce in her step as she headed back to her office at the rear of the Chantry.

Leliana chuckled, leaning closer to him and remarking quietly, “I do hope you bring an appetite. The last I heard, she had Flissa preparing a full banquet for us, complete with _hors d’oeuvres_.”

“Maker’s breath…”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

It was close to midnight when he finally made it back to his cabin to sleep. Instead of waiting until the morning to finish the paperwork he had planned on doing before Josephine had come up with her little get-together (as he had initially thought he would do), he had stayed in his office area and finished it after their meeting was adjourned. A good thing, as he was so stuffed from the supper that he doubted it was wise to lie down so soon. Despite the lack of variety in the food currently available at Haven, Josephine and Flissa had somehow pulled together an actual four-course meal for them, just as Leliana had suggested. Moreover, after he had managed to eat everything that had been served him (mostly out of courtesy rather than actual hunger), he had let himself be guilted into taking a second piece of cake...

Maker, how he regretted it.

Josephine’s energy seemed boundless. He deduced very quickly that she genuinely enjoyed learning about other people, and she absorbed all the information she gleaned about himself and Cassandra like a sponge. But despite her curiosity, she did not keep digging for personal details about either one of them, which he greatly appreciated. Very much the tactful diplomat, even in a friendly and familiar environment, Josephine was well-aware of boundaries and was polite enough not to cross them. He had no doubt, however, that she would be going to Varric (if she had not already done so) to get an alternative perspective on the both of them.

It was only when he began unbuckling his cuirass and preparing to go to bed that he realized the talk had almost exhausted him as much as the journey to Haven. He could feel his eyelids getting heavier as he removed his armor piece by piece, piling it rather unceremoniously in a wicker chair in the corner. With the last of it finally off and his boots tossed aside, he fell onto his cot and slowly let his eyes slide closed, hoping for a restful night.

It was not to be.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

_Fire. Burning fire. Searing his flesh – cooking it in his armor. Sweat pouring down his scalp. Looming walls closing farther and farther in like a cage. Heavy limbs…so heavy…so weak…breath held tight as if underwater. Flashes of violet eyes and ivory fangs…_

_“No…”_

_The smell of blood and sweat and death making his stomach churn. Smoke burning his nostrils and stinging his lungs. And the screams…the constant screams echoing, echoing, echoing…_

_“No…no!”_

_Nails like talons, scraping his jaw, his cheek, his lips…caresses to tease, to taunt, to tempt…_

“NO!”

Cullen’s chest heaved as he sat bolt upright in bed, a cold sweat matting his hair and plastering his clothes to his skin. Cool air from his open window hit damp flesh, causing him to shiver violently, and he hoped none outside had heard him cry out; the last thing he wanted was to have to explain what happened to either Rylen or Cassandra. For a few moments, he merely sat there, inhaling deeply and slowly to calm himself, but not closing his eyes – just in case sleep reclaimed him and plunged him right back in the same abyssal terror. His hands gripped the edges of his cot so tightly that his knuckles were white, and it was a few minutes before he had managed to rein in his trembling enough to let go.

He hadn’t had a nightmare that vivid in years, since right after the incident at Kinloch. Back then, when he had resumed taking regular lyrium after access to supplies was restored, the dreams had been numbed, somewhat, and over time, they became less and less…intense. He’d even manage to go a few nights a week with almost no dreaming at all. Thus, to have such a frightening night terror as he had in the months just following his captivity in Kinloch came as no small shock.

He felt his eyes wandering towards the dresser, where he kept his lyrium kit, and his brow furrowed. Was he really that afraid of quitting? In the past few days, he had been attempting to plan out an appropriate time to abandon the lyrium for good. He had thought about doing it a week or so before the Conclave. It would be a new start for himself as well as for the mages and Templars. It would also give him plenty of time to work up to it and prepare for what would likely be the most intense trial of his life.

His jaw tightened, and he stared into the dark with a burning intensity as he steeled his mind and heart.

_I will not be deterred._


	15. Chapter 15

_Hasmal, the Free Marches; Molioris (Bloomingtide), 9:41 Dragon_

Danlan cleared the chessboard again and began resetting the pieces as Simmy propped her chin on her hand and watched him. This would be the third round that afternoon – two losses for her and a draw.

It wasn’t his favorite pastime, but at least it was _something_ to occupy his mind. The Circle tower of Hasmal was two-thirds empty, even with the ragtag group of refugees from Ostwick and Markham added to the mix. Despite his significant lack of forces, the local Knight-Commander, Brycen, was doing his best to keep the loyalist mages and Templars in the tower safe. It was something that was becoming increasingly difficult to do, as rioters regularly demonstrated outside the tower walls. According to Brycen, if push came to shove, they could activate the magical wards to keep people out, but the Knight-Commander insisted that such a move be a last-resort measure. It was apparent that Brycen hoped the obvious lack of magical activity from the tower would convince the citizenry that nothing was afoot, and they would eventually give up their taunting. Danlan was not so sure that would happen. But, like the rest of them holed up there, they hoped and prayed.

It had been a nightmare getting into the city. Verana must have spent half an hour or more asking for the Knight-Commander’s presence and insisting they were Circle mages seeking sanctuary before the city guard would let them within a stone’s throw of the gates. Half of them had almost decided to seek asylum elsewhere when, finally, the Knight-Commander himself forced his way out and personally escorted them to the tower with a handful of his comrades. It was a tense few minutes to the Circle itself, walking briskly past sneering and threatening spectators who looked ready to throw much worse things than rotten vegetables at them. At last, when the heavy doors of the tower closed behind them, pushed shut by their escorts, everyone released a shuddering sigh of relief.

Verana must have thanked Brycen a dozen times or more for his hospitality, but the Knight-Commander had insisted it was only his duty – a duty that too many Templars had chosen to forget in these troubled times. It felt strange encountering a Templar who wasn’t afraid to do what his job actually entailed, which included protecting mages from the general public. They hadn’t known such since Ostwick.

The resident mages, those who had survived the uprising at Hasmal, had welcomed the newcomers warmly and insisted they share in the tower’s plentiful stores...at least, what hadn’t been damaged during their own rebellion. According to them, there was enough supplies stockpiled to last a year, if need be. So, for the first time in months, Verana’s little following had actual baths, warm meals, and soft beds, and for a long time, they could not believe their luck.

But with each week that passed, the shouts of the rioters would get a little louder.

It was ridiculous, really. From what Danlan understood, the citizens had been paranoid ever since the mage-Templar war had broken out. They suspected everything from the Templars colluding with the mages against the Chantry, to the Templars completely ignoring their duties and forsaking the Maker, to the mages actually bewitching the Templars and subjecting them to demonic possession. The elf supposed that the only thing preventing a mob from swarming the tower was the intimidating prowess of those who dwelled within. Despite their small number, even a handful of mages and Templars could cause a great deal of damage to any assailants.

“Your turn.”

Simmy prompted him to make a move, pulling him out of his deep thoughts. He studied the board with brow furrowed, and he was just about to move his rook to a position that would effectively trap one of her knights when the door of the commons swung open.

“Everyone gather round, quickly.”

Archmage Verana then entered the room, followed by Brycen and his Templars…all of them. Every mage abruptly stood, glancing one to the other with concerned looks writ on their faces. At the mages’ worried reaction, both Verana and Brycen held up their hands in a gesture of peace.

“Don’t be alarmed,” the Knight-Commander reassured them. “We just have an important announcement to share with you.”

Verana held up a piece of folded parchment, “This is a notice from Divine Justinia. Apparently, Her Perfection is hosting a Conclave at the Temple of Sacred Ashes in Ferelden during the final week in August. She seeks peace between mages and Templars, and she wishes to bring the leaders of both sides together to speak their minds.”

The Knight-Commander let his gaze sweep over them, “So…who among you would like to attend this Conclave and let your voices as loyalist mages be heard by Most Holy?”

Murmuring rippled through the mages in a wave, and Danlan was unsure how to respond. Peace? The Divine was finally stepping in? But what if it was a trap? Was it safe to go? What if the rebels of both sides could not agree to stop the war? These questions and more raced through his thoughts and were voiced by the other mages around him as he shared furtive glances with Simmy at his side. The murmuring in the hall steadily grew louder, until Brycen raised his hand again to get their attention once more.

“There is something that may affect your decision,” he added once the murmurs settled down. “This meeting is almost assuredly for the high-ranked members of both organizations…Templars of my rank or higher, and perhaps mages of minimum rank of Senior Enchanter. Everyone else will most likely be present only for a show of numbers, if they are even allowed near the Temple.”

“I have decided that I will go to represent Ostwick,” Verana continued. “Any of you who wish to come with me are welcome to do so. However, for those of you who do not want to make the journey, the Knight-Commander has assured me that he will continue to do his best to protect you here.”

“Be aware, though, that things may spiral out of my control,” Brycen finished gravely. “And so there is danger, either way.”

More murmurs. Danlan looked at Simmy, who looked back at him and the two leaders. So, they could risk being killed on the way to the Conclave, at the Conclave, or during the Conclave, or they could stay here and risk being overwhelmed and killed by an angry mob. His brow furrowed as he considered the options. It was difficult either way.

Then, suddenly, something emboldened the elf. There was something that needed to be said…something that had been bothering him for the last few weeks. He stepped forward, and his movement caused a hush to fall over the spectators as they anticipated his decision. When he realized he had a rapt audience of mages and Templars both, he felt a bit self-conscious. But when he saw the looks from Verana and Brycen, those of respect and attention, he recovered his courage and began to speak.

“This war…this war we have fled from, that has destroyed our homes and taken the lives of our friends…was started because we did not listen to each other. Because we chose to ignore each other’s plights.” He glanced around at each face, and he saw a few nods of agreement amongst the listeners. “If we are to end this, as the Divine wishes, then we must not perpetuate this cycle of inconsideration. We must let our voices be heard, all of us, together. Even if that means most of us only speak as a number of bodies in a room. And,” he paused, letting his gaze fall upon the cabal of Templars, “we must be aware of each other’s problems, and how we affect the lives of those around us.” He gestured to Brycen, “The Knight-Commander has generously allowed us – not only mages of his own Circle, but refugees from all over the Marches – to stay here, behind the swords and shields of his remaining men. He… _they_ …have done their true duty as Templars to protect mages from those who would see us dead for what we were born with.”

There was a chorus of quiet ayes and nods, and several of them glanced to the high windows, beyond which a seething citizenry awaited.

“They have been aware of our plight, but have _we_ been aware of _theirs_?” Danlan asked, turning to his fellow mages. “It is not just our hides that are at risk here in this tower. The mob cries for all our blood, Templar and mage alike. The Knight-Commander and his men have stuck their necks out for us, and half of us complete strangers who came begging on their doorstep. Perhaps it is time we stuck out _our_ necks for them.”

Verana and Brycen glanced to each other, sharing curious looks as they wondered what the elf was getting at.

Danlan then moved to stand by Verana’s side, opposite Brycen. “I propose that every mage in this tower leave with the Archmage for the Conclave, not only to seek peace, but to give the Knight-Commander and the other Templars here the rest they deserve. If we leave, then there will be nothing left for the mob to complain about, and perhaps they will be able to find respite between now and whatever resolution the Divine’s Conclave brings. Is it not the least we can do in return for the protection we have been given these last few weeks and, for some of us, longer?”

Brycen gave him a half-smile as he looked around Verana at the elf, “I am certain that I speak for all my men when I say that we appreciate the gesture. However, do not let concern for our fate dictate which path you choose.” Returning his attention to the rest of the room, the Knight-Commander added, “That goes for all of you.”

There were several moments of jabber in raised voices, groups of mages huddled together as they hashed out their options…some of them more heatedly than others. Beside Danlan, Verana heaved a slightly impatient sigh, at which Brycen merely chuckled. It seemed that the mages couldn’t do anything without a heavy amount of debate.

At last, the group quieted down, as if, all at once, they just made up their minds. Surprisingly, Simmy was the first among the mages to step forward, walking up to Danlan with a loud declaration. “I’m going, too.”

After a few moments, four more stepped forth to join the elves. “The Senior Enchanters of Hasmal will go.”

Slowly but surely, more and more mages joined with the small company at the front of the room, until, ultimately, all of them had agreed to go with Verana to the Conclave. When they finally realized that none of their fellow mages would be left behind at Hasmal, they erupted into applause. Danlan looked to Verana, who merely smiled softly and nodded to him, as if giving him a small congratulations.

It was decided.

“Now,” Brycen said at length, turning to his own men as he addressed the mages, “I cannot let you leave unguarded. There must be Templars who travel with you to ensure you are not hindered by various forces on the road. Do I have any volunteers?” He glanced over those under his command, who in turn glanced to each other and gave indifferent shrugs.

There were more than a few breaths of silence before one helmed Templar finally stepped forward. “I will go with them, Ser.”

Two more of his comrades immediately followed, likely friends. “And we.”

Brycen smiled approvingly, “Good. Help yourselves to the storerooms and take anything and everything you might find of use. The journey will be long and dangerous, and there is no telling what forces you will encounter on the way.” With that, he moved towards Verana and clapped a heavy armored hand on her shoulder, “Maker guide you, Archmage, and may he steer us towards true peace.”

“Maker keep you safe, Commander,” Verana replied solemnly, dipping her head to him.

At the Archmage’s side, Danlan watched and nodded respectfully as the Knight-Commander passed by and headed out into the tower hall. It was then that the elf realized just how tired Brycen looked. Despite his late middle-years, the Templar had always seemed so strong, even fierce, in the short time that he had known him. Now, though, as the mages prepared to depart for the Conclave, he looked almost sad.

Somehow, Danlan felt as though Brycen was predicting a terrible end to the whole situation. And perhaps he was right.


	16. Chapter 16

_Val Chevin, the Empire of Orlais; Molioris (Bloomingtide), 9:41 Dragon_

Donovan stirred, sweating under the blanket that was pinning him to the mattress. It had been pulled all the way under his armpits, stretched tight across his chest, and it almost felt as though it were weighing him down as he clawed his way out of sleep. He was sweltering and yet cold at the same time, and it felt like the sheets under him were drenched.

Then, suddenly, he felt something cool touch his forehead, and his eyes snapped open. There, an elderly Chantry Mother was leaning over him from where she sat on the edge of the cot, mopping his brow with a damp cloth and pushing stray hair from his face. When she saw that he was awake, she gave a smile that was gentle and warm. “There, there, ser,” she said with a distinctly Orlesian accent, her chocolate-brown gaze soft as she met his own. “Do you remember where you are? How you got here?”

“Orlais?” he replied wearily, though he only guessed that because of the accent. She seemed to have sensed this, as she chuckled lightly at his response. Continuing to press the blessedly cool cloth to his skin, she answered, “Yes. You are in Val Chevin. You and your men arrived here by ship from Kirkwall three days ago.”

“Oh, right,” he murmured, brow furrowing as he closed his eyes and tried to remember. The last thing he could recall was stumbling off the dock after the ship had anchored, his head pounding and his flesh on fire all the while…

“What happened?” he asked at length, eyes opening again. “Where are my-?”

“All fine,” she said soothingly, patting him on the shoulder. “All just fine, young man.  Though you might not have been had you arrived a day or two later than you did. This illness you all have is nothing like I have ever seen before.” She refreshed the cloth in a small bucket she had put on a stool by the bed, rinsing and wringing out the rag before wiping down his arms. “It resists all treatment. Potions do no good, and no herbs for any common ailments with similar symptoms offer any relief. We – my sisters and I – have had to merely wait it out and, in the meantime, try to keep you all from succumbing to your fevers.”

She sighed, ceasing her tending and studying his face. “You have fared better than some of your comrades. There were a few among them who reacted a bit more…violently than you.”

“Violently?” His brow furrowed, and alarm suddenly filled him. “Mother, they didn’t hurt-?”

She smiled reassuringly. “No, they were restrained rather quickly by the guard. I believe they were suffering hallucinations from the fever…they kept mentioning something about singing.”

_Singing?_

“But all that is past, now,” she continued, rising to her feet. “I think your fever may be broken at last, so I will have some food brought to you. No doubt you will be hungry, if you aren’t already.”

“Thank you, Mother,” he said with a dip of his head, and she offered a slight bow before turning to leave.

Once the door closed behind the old woman, Donovan sat up in the bed and took in his surroundings. He had been put in a very small room…perhaps what had been a storage room converted into a cell for patient use, which made him think that this Chantry was not large enough for its own infirmary. His belongings had been stacked neatly beside a chair on the opposite wall near the door. Butted up against the foot of his cot was an ancient wardrobe that looked like it hadn’t been opened in centuries. The stool beside his bed served as a nightstand of sorts; the priestess had taken the bucket of water with her, and what remained was a half-stub of candle and a stack of three more clean rags.

Lifting the blanket, he realized he had been stripped to his underclothes. Pulling the worn, moth-eaten fabric around his waist, Donovan decided he would have to wait to rise and put on anything else until he made sure the door was locked. He didn’t want to shock any good sisters who might come barging in…

As if on cue, a particularly young lay sister abruptly entered with a pewter tray in hand, opening the door with her hip and all smiles as she cautiously approached him.

“Mother Hanna said to bring you this,” she greeted him in what seemed to be an absurdly cheerful manner, and a part of him sensed that her tone did not stem from true happiness. He noticed the tray trembled a bit as she set it down on the end of the cot, and he suddenly realized that she was actually nervous. His hunch was correct; her smile was a cover for fear.

“Not to worry, Sister. We’re not like those rebels,” he said reassuringly, suspecting that was what she was afraid of.

“What? I…oh!” she stepped backwards a bit after she released the tray, her face reddening in embarrassment. It was apparent that she did not expect her anxiousness to be so obvious. “I’m sorry, ser, I…”

“No, no,” he shook his head to halt her apology. “I understand. My comrades and I weren’t in the best shape when we arrived, and I am the one who must apologize for any harm we may have done. I am not having the best time remembering how we got here.” He dipped his head to her respectfully, “Please send my thanks to the other sisters for their efforts. I promise we will be on our way as soon as we are able.”

“I…I will ser!” she nodded enthusiastically.

“And a favor, if you will?” he raised a hand to hold her attention as she turned to go, “If you could, secure the door? I would like to make myself a little more decent and presentable than I am.”

“Oh,” her bright blue eyes involuntarily wandered south of his face for but a brief instant. “Y-yes, of course, ser!” her cheeks reddened again, redder than her robes as she spun away. “Good day!”

He waited until the door closed and was secured after she practically flew out of the room and then heaved a heavy sigh, shaking his head and pulling the tray nearer as he began to think. The illness he and his men had suffered concerned him, and it was apparent it was much more than a mere common ailment.

Lost memory, fevers, hallucinations, violent outbursts…and hearing _singing_?

Suddenly, his eyes widened as he recalled the inn at Tantervale and the sensations he had felt when the strange Templar had approached them.

He hadn’t asked about the cargo being transported from Kirkwall, and now he was almost glad that he hadn’t. Because if what was on that ship had been what he now feared it was, he would have jumped overboard and swam the rest of the way to Orlais.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

His breakfast consisted of water and pasty gruel, a result of the effects of both the ongoing Orlesian civil war and, now, the rebel mage-Templar conflict. Mother Hanna, his caretaker, explained this to him later that morning as they sat in the apple orchard just outside the Chantry of Val Chevin. Between the two wars, the towns and villages of Orlais had been strained nearly to the breaking point. Harvests were scant, and if trade ships and caravans could not make it back and forth between the empire and other nations, then the people were faced with imminent starvation.

“And the nobles in the cities just keep pretending the commoners don’t exist,” Donovan remarked, glancing about at the bright summer landscape and enjoying the feel of the sun and the fresh air. In the Masked Empire, even the placid view of the countryside itself seemed to be a mask for the conflicts that brewed just over the next hill.

Mother Hanna was silent, but gave him an enigmatic smile.

“This can’t go on,” he shook his head in frustration after a few moments. “ _Someone_ has to do _something_.”

Mother Hanna’s smile then widened at his words, “That, good ser, is something I wished to speak to you about.” Reaching into her robes, she withdrew a letter with a broken seal and extended it to him. “Read this.”

Brow furrowing, he took the parchment and carefully unfolded it, peering at the delicate penmanship that swirled across its surface. His hazel gaze darted back and forth across the page, and as he took in the contents, it slowly widened. Mother Hanna’s expression was unchanged as she watched him, though a flash of curiosity sparked in her own dark eyes as they met his. He handed the letter back to her, and his voice bore a note of incredulity as he finally asked, “A Conclave? In Ferelden?”

“Yes, good ser,” she replied as she stowed the letter away again. “So you see…someone _is_ doing something. And now the question must be this – do you wish to be a part of it? Is this meeting something to which you and your fellows would be interested in contributing?”

He paused, looking between his feet. He nudged at a tiny mushroom with the toe of his boot as he thought, and then finally answered, “To be honest, Mother, I don’t imagine most of my company agreeing to it.  They would think it too dangerous. And quite possibly a trap. As for myself,” he then glanced upwards at the brilliantly blue sky above and sighed, “I’m not sure what difference we could make by being there. The rebels outnumber loyalist and apologist Templars ten to one. Our voices would be drowned out.”

“That may be true. But would you rather the Divine think you nonexistent? Sometimes, you can speak without talking. Your presence there _could_ make all the difference, even if your voices are not heard.”

He nodded slowly in agreement, but said nothing. There were more than a few moments of silence between them before the Mother finally added, “There is another thing. If this Conclave is not something you ultimately decide to take part in, might I suggest another opportunity for you?” When he glanced her way, curiousity piqued, she continued, “All of our Templars left us at the Lord Seeker’s decree, and we have been left with a significantly reduced amount of protection.” She glanced out over the rest of the town. “So many of our militia and guardsmen were conscripted into the war, and now, with our Templars gone as well, the citizens of Val Chevin are terrified, especially of an attack by opportunist mages. I know of several influential persons who would be willing to pay to be able to sleep at night, and I would be more than willing to provide lodging for you in our Chantry if you would stay here. It would do much to comfort the masses just to see you guarding our doors. The rebels may have damaged the image of the Templars for some, but there are a great many who still take comfort in seeing your armor.”

He nodded again in understanding as he absorbed her words and considered her offer. Guard duty in Val Chevin would certainly be better than risking their lives on the roads, and if he was honest with himself, he had had enough of travel for several months. Instead of making camp in the elements and rapidly depleting their meager coin purses whenever they needed to purchase food, they would have secure lodging and whatever pay the locals were willing to provide.

“I will speak to my companions about both these opportunities as soon as they are in fit shape to listen,” he replied at length. “I cannot promise you anything, but I will see what they have to say.”

Mother Hanna inclined her head to him and rose slowly, “That is all I ask, Ser Donovan. I will leave you to your thoughts. May the Maker guide us all.”

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“No.”

Dieter’s voice was flat as he was the first to respond to Donovan’s question as to whether or not they wished to attend Divine Justinia’s Conclave. The Templars under his command had all gathered around a table in one of the Chantry’s cramped storerooms, a wall of glittering metal standing shoulder to shoulder as they listened to their Lieutenant’s words.

“No?” Cornelia’s expression was one of incredulity as she looked at the mountain of a man opposite her. “Just like that? You don’t think we should at least see how it goes in person?”

Harwin crossed his arms. “Look, we investigated that weird Templar in Tantervale. Remember what happened? Our Order is barking mad, plain and simple, and so is the Divine for even wanting them in the same room with her.”

“So are the rebel mages,” Clara interjected.

“Having both sides come together under one roof is a disaster waiting to happen,” Stefan rumbled as his eyes fixed on the table before him. “There’s nothing left for either side anymore but fighting until one or both parties are all dead. The Divine waited too late, and now there is nothing left to salvage.”

“And all we accomplish by being in amongst them is making ourselves dead too,” Dieter added at Stefan’s side.

“I would be willing to bet ten silver the war’ll start up again right under Her Perfection’s nose,” Sven snorted.

“Even with the Knights-Divine and Knight-Vigilant there?” Cornelia asked. “Surely they-”

“They may not be on her side,” Jehanna remarked with a pointed look out of her one good eye.

Emil sighed. “As good as the idea is, I’m certain that peace won’t be achieved just by the Divine _wanting_ it to happen,” he remarked, his armor glinting in the candlelight as he gesticulated wildly to emphasize his words. “She has the majority of the Templar Order, the Seekers, _and_ the Circles to fight.”

“And what in the Void do you think is going to happen if they refuse Her Perfection’s request?” Jehanna asked. “This isn’t a negotiation, however delicately it might be worded…it’s an ultimatum.”

“So you think the Divine will have both sides crushed if they don’t stop being dunces and agree to peace terms? How? An Exalted March? With _what_ army?” Douglas thumped his breastplate emphatically. “ _We_ are supposed to be Most Holy’s army, and two-thirds of us or more have turned against her!”

“Not to mention Orlais’s soldiers are all occupied with the Civil War.”

“And Ferelden’s soldiers are still rebuilding from the Blight.”

“It’s impossible. Any way you look at it,” Harwin shook his head slowly.

Donovan sighed, glancing from one companion to the next. “So, you just think it’s all pointless and we shouldn’t even go just to represent others across Thedas like us? We can’t be the only ones. You know that. Shouldn’t the Divine at least know we’re there? That not everyone wants to fight to the death over this?”

Emil shook his head. “I don’t see it helping things.”

“With all due respect, what _we_ want doesn’t matter,” Douglas replied shortly. “ _We_ didn’t want this war to start in the first place, but the Seekers and Commanders decided it for us. Just like they’ll decide the outcome of the Conclave for us, too.”

Clara huffed, “We may not be able to sway the outcome, but that doesn’t change the fact that we _should_ go as Templars, answering the Divine’s call.”

At that, the group began to debate amongst themselves, their voices becoming louder and louder as they made arguments both for and against going, with most of them being against, just like Donovan suspected. He exchanged looks with Jehanna and shook his head.

“All _right_ ,” she suddenly slammed her fist on the table, and everyone fell silent with eyes wide as they turned to her. Once she was sure she had their attention and their bickering was at an end, she continued, “We’ve said our piece, and the Lieutenant knows how most of us stand on this issue. Let us hear what he wishes us to do, now.”

Donovan nodded his thanks to her and thought a moment before replying slowly, “The Conclave is at the end of August. It will take us a little over a month to get there, just shy of two months at the most. I propose that we give it some time and revisit this question again at a later date. In the meantime, we can do some work for Mother Hanna while we wait for more news about the situation. Is that agreeable?”

Silence filled the room as they looked one to the other, and then slowly nodded.

“Aye.”

“Ser.”

“Good to me.”

Donovan smiled, “Good. Now, let’s go speak with the good Mother and see what exactly she wants us to do.”


	17. Chapter 17

_Haven, Ferelden; Matrinalis (August), 9:41 Dragon_

Cullen rubbed his temples with the forefingers of both hands as he sat in his makeshift office, trying to numb the onset of yet another headache. He slowly let his eyes slide shut, and he could practically _feel_ the vibration of the multitude of voices in the Chantry through his arms, which were propped atop his desk as he held his head. Scattered between his elbows were reports from attending parties and mercenaries unaffiliated with either the mages or the Templars, and they provided him with valuable information on the state of the Conclave’s security. Alongside Shokrakar of the Valo-Kas and Captain Aldric of the Lames D’Argent, there were two new leaders who communicated with him via runners – Commander Jordanis of yet another hired mercenary company, the Wildcats of Nevarra, and one Daerdir of Clan Lavellan, who had come to represent the interests of the elves of the Free Marches. These companies’ messengers prevented him from having to make the long trek back and forth from the Temple every day, and they also kept the Divine’s Hands from having to add message ferrying to their growing list of duties.

Judging from the varied accounts he had been given, the mercenaries were able to control the situation at the Temple entirely on their own thus far, especially with the frequent watchful presence of both Hands of the Divine. Thus, the commander was not particularly worried with the security of the grounds of the Temple itself. It was the environs around _Haven_ that had Cullen concerned. There, camped around the village, were low-ranking members of both sides of the conflict who were not important enough to have their voices heard during the Conclave itself. The Chantry had long run out of room for the mages, and so now the settlement served as the physical barrier between them and their Templar opposition. Cullen was at the limit of his recruiting capacity without formally asking for reinforcements from Empress Celene and King Alistair, and if the number of visitors became much larger, he would not have enough men to properly secure the area. What soldiers he _did_ have were already having a difficult enough time; there had been more than a dozen attempts over the past few months on the part of both the mages and the Templars to incite fighting and rioting in the streets, and Haven had almost caught fire twice from rogue magic.

Needless to say, their hands were full.

On top of the threat posed by the mages and the Templars, he had the constant presence of the Chantry busybodies and noble dignitaries to put up with. Once the mages had vacated the premises of Haven’s Chantry, the Grand Clerics’ retinues had swiftly replaced them. Ambassador Josephine had worked miracles accommodating all of the attendees and their endless train of associates, but Cullen highly suspected that Haven could take no more guests without physically bursting at the seams.

And if he had to overhear one more conversation about Sister Elisa’s “positively _scandalous_ ” possession of a copy of _The Randy Dowager Quarterly_ , he was certain that his _brain_ would burst at the seams.

 _Why in Andraste’s name do they insist on standing around_ my _door to talk?_

Suddenly, as if sent by the Maker himself, Sister Nightingale entered, scattering the gossiping old birds outside as she swept into the office and closed the door behind her in one fluid movement. She gave him a knowing smile as she beheld him sitting there, and her blue eyes twinkled almost impishly as she asked, “Are you quite all right, Commander?”

He sighed forcefully and gathered the reports in front of him, stacking them neatly atop a growing pile on the corner of the desk, next to a painfully-empty inventory ledger. “I just need to get away from this incessant chatter for a moment.”

Her smile widened, “Then perhaps I have the perfect excuse for you. Come with me outside. There is something I want to talk with you about, and it could do with a few less ears to hear.”

Curiosity piqued, he nodded and acquiesced to her request, “Very well, Sister. Lead on.” Standing, he then pushed in his chair and followed Leliana out of the Chantry, appreciating the opportunity to get away from both the paperwork and the noise. The gossips in the main hall ceased their prattle for a few moments as they watched the two leaders pass, and then resumed their talk in more hushed tones once they were certain the pair was out of earshot.

As they continued on through the town, weaving their way in and out between loitering groups of people, Cullen wondered what it was that Leliana wished to speak of in a private setting. He could count on one hand the number of true conversations the two of them had had – those outside of obligatory meetings or Chantry-related matters – since they had met the previous year. He had attempted to start a few in their early days of working together, but her reception to such was detached at best, and so he had decided to leave the initiation to her from then on. The Nightingale did not choose to talk with him in casual discussions nearly as often as Cassandra, and, for a long time, he had wondered if Leliana disliked him on some level, despite the cordialness with which she always addressed him. After some observing, however, it was apparent that the number of close acquaintances she had was very small indeed, Josephine one among them, and she seemed to consciously hold everyone else at the same polite distance, regardless of how long they worked together. He had to admit that it was a practical practice; closeness inevitably invited emotional attachment, which could prove dangerously detrimental to the success of operations.

Thus, this rather sudden initiation of a private conversation on her part was rather surprising, but not unwelcome. While he was not purposefully seeking her friendship, he hoped that they could at least speak to each other more comfortably than they had been, especially if the Inquisition was to take shape as expected.

When at last Sister Nightingale stopped, she had arrived at the broken pier on the frozen lake.  She leaned against one of the posts and he slowly drew up beside her, likewise leaning on another post on the opposite side of the pier. For several long moments, she was silent as she looked out at the scenery before them. Then, finally, she spoke, her eyes focused on the shining ice ahead.

“So…it is almost here. A day that will change the world forever.” She glanced downwards and chuckled to herself. “I cannot say ‘the’ day, as there have been many days that have changed Thedas forever, for better or worse. But we are fast approaching another one. You can always feel it.” The Nightingale then cast her sharp, blue-eyed gaze his way and added, “You know of what I speak, no?”

“Yes, I know the feeling well,” he replied, nodding slowly in understanding. He was well aware of that sensation that heralded either a rebirth or impending doom. “Kirkwall is the first instance that comes to mind.”

“For me, it is the day we faced the Archdemon in Denerim, during the Blight,” she continued. “I truly felt as though the Maker was on our side that day, and I knew we would be victorious before the battle was ever begun, even if I myself did not live to see it. The Warden was just that type of person.” Leliana shook her head, and it was obvious that she was sunk deep into old memories as she returned to staring at the vast expanse of ice. “She would threaten to kill me for making the comparison, but she was just like one of those heroes from the old tales.”

A smile pulled at the corner of his mouth as he remembered the Hero of Ferelden, now the country’s esteemed Warden-Queen. “I know I have said it before,” he said quietly, “but I do wish I had been in better shape to thank her for what she did at the Circle. I would not be alive if it weren’t for her, nor would a great many others who were trapped there.”

Leliana chuckled, “You would be wasting your breath, I’m afraid. Her Majesty never liked to be thanked overmuch for her help. She would have seen it as the right thing to do at the time, with no need for thanks. She was always so sure of her duty. She knew what needed to be done, many times before anyone asked her, and she was not afraid to do it.”

“It sounds as if she would have indeed been the perfect choice for Inquisitor.”

She crossed her arms and huffed. “I have been trying to contact her ever since we arrived here in Ferelden, but to no avail. Even with my new informants, I cannot locate her. It is very…troubling.” She sighed, “Sometimes I wish she were here. She could put this entire situation to rest quickly. I know she could.” There were a few moments of silence, and she looked at him again with a shrug. “But, even if she _were_ around to contact, I’m not sure she would agree to do it. She has a great many responsibilities on her shoulders already, as both Warden-Commander and Queen. Perhaps the Maker knows that leading the Inquisition was not her purpose, and that is why she has been hidden from me.”

He pressed his lips together and nodded. “Being Inquisitor atop both those responsibilities would be difficult to manage, I agree.”

Leliana was silent again for several long moments, and the relaxed demeanor she had initially possessed seemed to dissolve slowly as she continued, raising her chin. “There was a time when we could do more together, but those days are long over. It seems our paths have been separated indefinitely. Even if I long for a simpler time when we could have helped the world as mere adventurers, I know that my purpose now is serving the Divine.”

She met his eyes once more, and he noticed that her gaze seemed…harder? Colder? It was difficult to describe.

“But, that brings me to what made me start thinking about all this to begin with,” she continued. “There will be Grey Wardens at the Conclave. They arrived about three days ago…a rather ragtag-looking group of representatives from Orlais. It is strange to have a Warden delegation at any sort of official function of the Chantry, but it is also little wonder that they have expressed an interest in witnessing the proceedings. A great many mages fled the war into their ranks, and they likely are concerned about how their new recruits will be seen by the rest of the world.”

“A great many Templars left the Order to join them as well,” Cullen remarked.

“So I hear. The Wardens, as a general rule, operate outside the authority of nations, and even that of the Chantry. There is a certain freedom in serving them, despite the significant…drawbacks. Not only can volunteers join their ranks, but members are also able to forcibly conscript recruits by way of ancient treaties, which makes them a rather significant force with which to contend, politically as well as physically.”

This time, it was Cullen who crossed his arms, as he began to understand where she was headed with the conversation. “You think they will put their powers of conscription to use should the Conclave not end well?”

“I have no doubt that they will attempt to salvage as much of both organizations as they can,” she replied. “Even if there is no Blight, there is always the threat of darkspawn in the Deep Roads. Not only that, but the Wardens of Ferelden in particular are still weak from the Fifth Blight, even though it is ten years past already. Mages and Templars added to their ranks would bolster their forces a great deal. If I were an officer of the Wardens, I would not waste the opportunity.” She sighed, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “In any case, it will certainly be interested to see if the Wardens publically offer anything during the Conclave, or if they will wait until after it is over. Or, if they do anything at all. Their delegation is not very large, so perhaps they are merely ferrying word back to the First Warden in Weisshaupt.”

“We shall see soon enough, I suppose.”

“That we shall. The day cannot come fast enough, and I am sure that you feel the same.” Then, she seemed to glimpse something move out of the corner of her eye, and she glanced away; following her gaze, he saw Rylen heading towards them with a friendly wave, the silverite of the Templar’s gauntlet flashing in the sun. At that, Leliana dipped her head to Cullen with a small smile. “It looks like your second wants to have a word with you. Until later, then, Commander.”

She pushed off of the pier and departed quickly, walking at a brisk and purposeful pace back towards the village. Cullen watched as she left, thinking about her words, and then nodded in greeting to the approaching Knight-Captain.

“Commander. I just thought I’d pass the word along - we just had another mage delegation arrive.”

Cullen’s brows rose. “Another? From where?”

Rylen tossed his armored hands in the air. “Free Marches. Markham, Ansburg, Ostwick, Hasmal…looks like they all decided to come together. Some Senior Enchanters and an Archmage went on to the Temple with some of the scouts. We already have the rest in the mage camp. There were a few Templars from Hasmal acting as escorts, and they’re settled as well.”

“Good,” Cullen replied with an approving nod, beginning to walk back towards the village himself. Rylen followed silently for a long while, and then remarked, “I just hope that’s the end of the new arrivals. Soon, we’re not going to have enough supplies to go around to make sure everyone is fed before the Conclave gets here.”

“Or recruits to keep order,” Cullen added pointedly. “The number we do have is dangerously low, I’m afraid.”

“Aye,” Rylen agreed as he walked beside him. “Sometimes it feels like this whole thing is one prayer away from falling apart. The Maker must be on our side indeed for us to get as far as we have.”

Not long after the two men entered the town gates, Varric meandered over to them with a half-smile on his face. “There you are. Saw you make quite a quick getaway from the Chantry with the Nightingale. Are you as ready for this thing to be over as I am?”

“Nobles keeping you busy, Tethras?” Rylen teased before Cullen could respond.

Varric chuckled, “Tell me about it. I’ve been signing so many autographs it feels like my hand is going to fall off. Was this the Seeker’s real punishment for me? Confining me indefinitely in a village full of rabid fans?”

“I don’t know,” Cullen replied with a smirk as he then saw Cassandra approaching behind the dwarf. “She could probably think of worse things.”

“Are you talking about me?” the Seeker herself asked when she finally neared, her lip curling as she glanced suspiciously at Varric.

“Only regarding your best traits, I promise,” he winked back at her.

“Ugh.”

“That reminds me,” Cullen suddenly remembered something he wished to talk with the Seeker about, and if she had a moment, he thought he had better seize it before something else came up. “Cassandra, if I might have a word?”

“Of course, Commander. What about?” she asked, cocking her head curiously at him.

“Let us speak of it privately,” he gestured towards his cabin, and Rylen and Varric perceptively took that as a cue to leave, both of them heading in opposite directions to find something else to occupy them.

Her brows rose, but she answered with a nod of affirmation, “Of course.”

He led the way to his cabin, and once they reached it, he closed the door behind him and locked it so that no runners would disturb them with reports or message deliveries. The Seeker wandered over to a side table and leaned on it, politely waiting in silence as he gathered his thoughts. He found himself looking at anything but her as he pondered how he should begin. Even though his decision had already been made, telling her about it somehow seemed even harder than actually going through with his choice…

“You recall I told you I left in Kirkwall everything that I never wanted to see again?”

“Yes, I remember,” she replied, her somewhat puzzled expression hinting that she already wondered where this conversation was going.

“That…was not true in its entirety,” he continued. “I brought my lyrium kit with me, and I have been increasingly sickened by that fact ever since. I convinced myself that I might still need the abilities I learned as a Templar here in Haven, and to use them I needed the lyrium. But I found that it was just a convenient excuse to make me feel more at ease. In reality, I was afraid of the consequences of quitting.”

She slowly nodded, “That is understandable.”

He shook his head, swallowing hard as he met Cassandra’s dark gaze. “But such fear will haunt my life no more. I’ve stopped taking it. Forever. Not a single drop more.”

At that, her eyes widened, and her brows arched high as she comprehended the choice he had made. For the first time since he had met her, Cassandra looked truly stunned.

“You…you have? But you know that-”

“Yes. I do. And I accept it.” He replied shortly, perhaps more tersely than he had intended. He paced back and forth before the door as his thoughts rushed to the forefront of his mind, and he felt his voice grow heavy with emotion as the words suddenly began to spill from him, propelled by passion.

“I want _nothing_ more to do with my life as a Templar, and I cannot separate myself from that life without abandoning everything that _makes_ me a Templar. But it’s not just that, is it? It’s not just a tool or a means to an end. No. It is a _noose_ placed around my neck by the Chantry, and I wish to be shed of it. If I am to serve the Divine’s cause as Commander of her Inquisition, then I will do so a free man, with nothing holding me down or back. The Maker has seen fit to grant me another chance to do right…a new beginning, and I will not squander it by fearfully clinging to the last vestiges of a failed past!”

When he finally looked up, he saw Cassandra watching him intently, almost slack-jawed. Anticipating what arguments she might make, he added, “I will not be afraid of what is to come. I will not fear pain. I will not fear death.”

There were several breaths of silence, then, and his left hand almost subconsciously gripped the hilt of his sword, as if he were drawing strength and stability from the weapon that hung at his hip. Surprisingly, even though he had expected her to, she offered no objection or admonishment concerning this decision. At least, not yet.

“Our agreement has not changed, however. If the Inquisition is formed, as we believe it will be,” he continued at length, “then I swear to you that I _will_ command its forces to the best of my abilities, just as I agreed to do in Kirkwall. Whatever the pain this decision of mine causes upon my person, I will bear it for as long as I am able. But I also know that the withdrawals may eventually take a toll on my ability to lead.” He met her gaze and straightened. “If that time comes, Seeker…if you see me falter…if you see me unable to command your men any longer without risking lives and jeopardizing the Inquisition…I ask that you strip me of my position and find a proper replacement. I trust only your judgment in this matter.”

Her eyes searched his for several long moments, and her expression shifted from one of surprise and almost awe to one that was unreadable. The silence around them was heavy, almost oppressive, and for a moment he wondered if she would dismiss him then and there, thinking him already a liability to the cause.

At last, however, she nodded and replied simply, “Very well. It will be as you wish, Commander.”

Relief flooded him, and he inclined his head to her respectfully, “Thank you, Seeker.”

“And,” she added, pausing a moment to gather her thoughts before finally continuing, “I feel I must tell you that I respect your decision. I know that quitting lyrium is not something a Templar does easily, and your willingness to endure whatever comes from such a choice speaks greatly of your personal fortitude. I think what you are doing is very brave, and I pray that the Maker grants you the strength to see it through.”

With that, she pushed off from the table and moved to leave. However, before she reached the door, she clapped a hand on his shoulder and said with a small smile, “And if you want to know how I feel about it, I think you will, Commander.” Then, the Seeker departed the cabin and gently closed the door behind him to give him a few moments to himself. When he finally found the voice to respond, it was but a murmur in the empty air.

“I hope you’re right.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

It was a chaotic place, Haven.

Danlan curled his hands around a mug of cocoa as he sat before the fire in the middle of the mage encampment, staring into the flickering flames. He remembered how the serving girl had nervously handed it to him after asking if anyone wanted one of the steaming beverages she held atop a large tray. Fear permeated the air; the mages, especially those who had not rebelled against their Circles, feared the camp of rebel Templars, feared the outcome of the Conclave, feared at any moment that the anxious nobles and residents would pounce on them with dogs and scythes and pitchforks. On top of that, within the encampment itself, there was tension mounting – those who had rebelled seethed at those who hadn’t, and vice versa.

Furthermore, the “soldiers” guarding the camps and patrolling the village to maintain order were little comfort. They wore no uniforms, merely ragtag bits and pieces of armor and weapons they had managed to buy off of whatever merchants dared travel to these remote parts. As Danlan understood it, the Chantry’s answer to its army being shattered was emergency recruitment of a peasant militia and the hiring of desperate sellswords who hadn’t been lucky enough to have their services bought by the Empress or the Grand Duke for their civil war. The elf was not sure that, if a true battle broke out, this patchwork company of enforcers would be able to stop it.

Thus, like many who gathered silently around the fire, waiting for the Conclave to arrive, Danlan prayed to the Maker and his bride to deliver them swiftly from this damned torturous existence. The day could not come soon enough.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

_Val Chevin, the Empire of Orlais; Matrinalis (August), 9:41 Dragon_

It was almost time for the Conclave.

As he sat on the edge of his cot in Val Chevin’s Chantry, Donovan’s thoughts of the Divine’s upcoming meeting were bitter. He had hoped that, with time and the monotony of staying in one place, his company would change their minds about going to Ferelden; they were sick of travel after they had first arrived in Orlais, that was true, but he _knew_ them – these were men and women of action. They would grow restless and want to do more about their situation and the war in general than just guard doors and play fetch for Mother Hanna. It was inevitable.

But he was wrong. When the time had come to make a final decision, and he had brought them together and asked them about it again, they still insisted that they stay well away from the Conclave and the parties traveling to the Chantry affair. It would only result in their deaths, they said. True peace could never be achieved via a meeting, they said, even one held by the Divine herself. For them, doing good works in Val Chevin in the name of what the Order _should_ have been was the only way to redeem the Templars in the eyes of the people.

The last he had heard of her, Verana was quite the esteemed mage at Ostwick. If she had survived the collapse of her Circle and had received word of the Divine Conclave as they had, then he was certain that she would go to the peace talks as a representative of the Circle. He felt it in his gut that it was something she would do. He was sure, too, that it would have been a chance for them to find each other and, if the peace talks failed, they could flee and weather the storm together and no longer have to worry about one or the other being alive anymore.

But his comrades wouldn’t budge. And he could not just abandon them and go by himself. His honor would not let him. Yet, in doing his duty as their commanding officer to look out for their well-being and bending to the will of his charges, Donovan felt he had passed up perhaps the only opportunity to be reunited with his little sister.

He had never before felt so conflicted about his duty and so disgusted with his life…the life he had been _shoved_ into by his bastard of a father, who had offered him up as a sacrifice to uphold the Trevelyan reputation. Despite this truth, the Order had once been a haven to which he had willingly fled to escape his dysfunctional family. But now it felt like nothing but a chain holding him back.

He sighed, closing his eyes and bowing his head as he swallowed his anger and prepared to face the day. If only he had been born with Roland’s selfishness and Jocelyn’s nerve…


	18. Chapter 18

_Haven, Ferelden; Matrinalis (August), 9:41 Dragon_

Cullen could nearly taste the tension in the air, it was so thick.

The morning of the Conclave was crisp and cool, an early autumn snow the night before having blanketed the ground in shimmering white and leaving behind a significant chill that persisted into the following day. In response to the gentle prodding of nature, the trees began to shift their hues from shades of green to those of gold, russet, and crimson. It was a change that had, in all actuality, been approaching gradually, but after the snow, had appeared to come over the foliage of the valley overnight. The brilliant fire of these turning leaves contrasted beautifully with the lyrium-blue of the sky above, which was now marred only by streaks of feathery white clouds. A soft, fresh breeze fluttered through the fur of his collar and played with his meticulously-styled hair, bringing with it the scents of the forest around Haven.

He, Varric, Cassandra, and Leliana stood on the Penitents’ Crossing and watched as the last Grand Cleric to depart the village with her train of attendees disappeared behind the bend of the path to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. It would not be long before the two Hands of the Divine joined them with Varric in tow, and the official proceedings would begin. Meanwhile, back in the village proper, the Commander’s recruits had halted all training exercises and, under Rylen’s command, were tasked with supervising the residents, mages, and Templars in an attempt to keep everyone calm and orderly while the Conclave was underway. At the Temple, the mercenary bands had gathered and were maintaining peace at the event itself. By all accounts, everything was running smoothly and as planned so far. Cullen could only hope things stayed that way.

But he sincerely doubted they would.

It had been a week since he had ceased taking the lyrium, and he had to admit that he already felt freer than he had in years just not having to look at that damned kit anymore. He was somewhat surprised that he had yet to suffer any symptoms from withdrawal, but he knew it took time for his body to purge every last bit of the stuff from his system. Once it did, the peace would be over. He just wondered which would hit him first, the headaches, the tremors, or the thirst…

At that moment, he heard footsteps to his left, and, glancing that way, he saw Grand Chancellor Roderick Asignon approaching them, hands behind his back and a half-smile on his aged face. But Cullen knew that the smile the man bore was not one of good cheer. Despite his usual closeness to the Divine, one that was borne of his particular station in the Chantry hierarchy, Roderick would not be attending the Conclave, and, in Cullen’s eyes, he seemed to be rather bitter about that fact. Stuck with managing the lower echelons of the Chantry in Haven, Roderick was not allowed to influence the Divine’s decisions in this situation. It was a reminder that his level of importance was not nearly as high as he would have liked it to be, and his resentment over such was evident in almost everything that had come out of his mouth since he had arrived in Haven from Val Royeaux a month ago.

“Looking forward to witnessing the proceedings, Seeker?” the Grand Chancellor ultimately asked as Cassandra followed Cullen’s gaze, his expression already betraying that he knew what her answer would be.

The Seeker snorted in reply, “Jumping for joy.”

“Oh, come on,” Varric prodded. “You get to hear my impeccable storytelling a second time!”

“ _Ugh_.”

“I, for one, will be eager to hear the results of this Conclave,” Roderick continued. “It will be most pleasing to know when the Chantry finally reasserts itself as the true authority over both mages and Templars.”

“ _If_ it does,” Leliana remarked, raising a thin red eyebrow at the Chancellor. “There is no guarantee that the mages or the Templars will agree to peace, and even if they do, the terms of the treaty may not recognize either organization as part of the Chantry any longer.”

Suddenly there was a distant, echoing crack from the valley that sounded not unlike a tree being felled. Following it was a resounding boom that reverberated throughout the mountains. The very stones of the bridge trembled beneath their feet in answer, as though a hundred druffalo were stampeding under them, and the five looked one to the other with concern in each other’s eyes.

“What was-” Varric started, but then halted abruptly as a brilliant green burst of light illuminated the distant crags, chased by a dark and ominous cloud of debris and smoke that stretched upwards into the sky like wet ink spreading across parchment.

“Maker’s breath, the Temple!”

“The Divine!”

Memories of the destruction of the Kirkwall Chantry flashed through Cullen’s mind – images of fragments of the bell tower tumbling through the streets and crushing the estates of Hightown. “The people! They must get to safety!”

But then his eyes widened as he saw a shockwave rippling through the landscape, pushing over the trees in the distance like the wind from a storm plowing through tall grass. It barreled towards them, spraying snow and debris, and he had barely enough time to push the others behind one of the gate towers before it struck the Penitents’ Crossing. They huddled together behind the thick stone, praying that it would hold whilst the whole structure trembled and the wind moaned around them. A whole wagon was lifted and dashed into the bridge, splinters and nails flying everywhere.

And then, once the shockwave had finally passed, a giant flaming boulder smashed into the tower above them and showered bricks atop them, causing them to lift their arms over their heads to shield themselves.

“What in Andraste’s name is going on!?” Roderick exclaimed, his tone a mixture of outrage and near panic.

“What do you think!” Varric shouted, “Someone blew up the damned Temple!”

It was then that Cassandra seized Cullen by the shoulders, looking directly into his eyes with ferocity flashing in hers. “Get back to Haven and get the people to shelter! Leliana and I will go to the Temple! Quickly!”

Knowing it was useless to protest regarding their safety, Cullen wordlessly nodded, swallowing hard and pressing his lips together in resolve. He spun, shrugging his shield onto his arm, and then grabbed Roderick, pulling the elder man with him while Varric followed on their heels. Sending a silent prayer to the Maker, he held the shield aloft over them as they ran across the bridge together, heading for the village. He could hear the distant panicked shouts of the people already, and he knew that he had to act fast.

“You there!” he bellowed to the nearest scout, who seemed almost frozen in her tracks on the town side of the bridge as she watched the debris cloud rise ever higher, her eyes like saucers. “Get the word to Captain Rylen to get the people to the Chantry for shelter, _now_!”

As if illustrating his point, a rock plummeted to the ground right next to his feet, spraying pebbles and snow against their legs.

“Y-yes, ser!”she turned and sprinted away faster than a deer, screaming for Rylen to the top of her lungs. The three men followed not far behind.

“This is a little bit too familiar for my liking, Curly!” Varric remarked.

“And mine!”

The Chancellor panted as he struggled to keep up with Cullen’s pace, being of significantly greater age, and when they drew up next to the stables, he waved the Commander and dwarf onwards, “Keep going without me! I’ll direct people to the Chantry as they come this way!”

A piece of jagged metal crashed into his shield just as Roderick ducked away, waving to members of the Grand Cleric’s entourage as they approached from the bridge. Leaving the Chancellor to handle them, Cullen’s eyes frantically searched for his soldiers and his second-in-command as he continued his mad dash for the gates, Varric close behind. The Templar and mage encampments outside the walls were in utter chaos, more than half of each group taking advantage of the pandemonium and fleeing into the passes beyond the town.

_Damn them, anyway._

He and his men were not there to keep the rebels caged, only to protect everyone else _from_ them. If they wanted to leave, let them.

“ _Ser!_ ” One of his youngest soldiers scrambled up to him from the training area near the lake, “What do we do?”

“Get the people in the Chantry, now!” he ordered, “There’s debris falling from an explosion in the valley!”

The boy immediately obeyed, running as fast as his legs would carry him towards the gates and yelling like the scout before him. The wreckage was beginning to fall more regularly and in larger pieces, and the frightened screaming from the village was getting louder, blended with regular shouts from his men.

It was then that the air itself seemed to tremble around him, and another brilliant green flash came from the valley. Glancing back towards the bridge, Cullen saw that the glow he had seen earlier was now a permanent fixture in the sky, floating in the distance like a shimmering wisp. It spun and flickered, sucking all of the clouds towards it like a maelstrom.

_Not again…_

His heart dropped into his stomach. A cold sweat beaded on his brow, and his breathing became ragged as he tasted bile on his tongue. These familiar sensations at such sights the lyrium had helped to numb, but he was a week without it now.

He shook his head fiercely to clear it. No. He couldn’t think of that. _Wouldn’t_ think of that. Swallowing back the icy talons of dread and fear that clutched at his heart and constricted his throat, he charged towards the gates that his men held open, following the Templars, mages, citizens, and Chantry attendees that rushed through them and into the village beyond. Already he could hear Rylen bellowing orders from his perch on a makeshift watchtower, and he was thankful for the man’s presence there. Men and women scrambled to collect their children and grabbed the hands and arms of their loved ones as the soldiers herded them to the Chantry, holding shields above their heads to protect them.

“I’ll help spread the word!” Varric yelled at his side, sprinting towards the tavern-side of the town while Rylen scrambled down the wooden watch platform as he saw Cullen enter the settlement.

“What in the Void is going on, Commander?!”

“I’ll explain later, just help me get everyone in the Chantry!”

He and his soldiers fanned out, making sure all the buildings were evacuated and no stragglers had been caught by flying debris. Roderick brought up the rear of a group of fleeing scouts and attendees from beyond the Penitents’ Crossing, and once Cullen was certain that was the last of those close enough to Haven to reach shelter, they made a dash for the Chantry themselves, rocks and detritus pelting their shields and armor all the while. When the final soldier ducked inside, he and Rylen pulled the mighty Chantry doors closed with a resounding _bang_.

For a moment, they merely stood there, catching their breath as they looked around. All those who had been outside were now packed within the Chantry walls like fish in a barrel. Most of the Templars and mages who yet remained stood on the outer perimeter, pressed against the walls and lingering in the alcoves while the nobles, lay sisters and brothers, and villagers crowded in between, weeping and praying and hushing wailing children. Infants screamed, protesting the noise and sensing the fear in the air. Debris bombarded the building now, and every few seconds there would be a loud crash where a larger piece would strike the Chantry’s roof. Cullen hoped to the Maker that nothing would fall through onto someone’s head...

“Commander?” a voice asked from near one of the side alcoves. Glancing that way, he saw Ambassador Josephine looking at him with eyes wide and glittering in the firelight. Although she was attempting to keep her voice steady as she addressed him, it was obvious that she was both shaken and deeply concerned. “What has happened?”

A hush fell over the gathering and all eyes latched onto him. Inhaling slowly, he replied, “There has been an explosion at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. We do not know the cause, and-”

“ _Bullshit_ ,” a Templar interrupted, pointing an accusing armored finger. “The mages had their most powerful people at the Temple and ‘we don’t know’ what could cause an explosion of _this_ magnitude?”

“Ha!” a mage retorted, his staff flashing at his words. “You lot are still being typical bastards even on the day of the Conclave. Ready to put this conflict behind you, my ass. Something bad happens and we’re automatically suspect, regardless of the truth! That will never change!”

“Oh, how easily you forget!” a noblewoman exclaimed, her lace fan fluttering at the speed of a hummingbird’s wings. “A _mage_ destroyed the Chantry at Kirkwall! This could be no different!”

“You can’t trust any of them!” a villager cried, “Kill them all now and let’s be rid of the problem at last!”

“ _Enough!_ ” Cullen shouted overtop them, hand on the hilt of his sword. “Let it be known here and now that I will _not_ tolerate violence of any sort from anyone against anyone, mage, Templar, or otherwise. The first person who draws a blade or hurls a spell will find themselves clapped in irons and on a prison cart to Val Royeaux, is that understood?”

The soldiers, and what Templars served under Rylen, cast their eyes over the throng, gazes glittering in the shadows of their helms as they made ready to do as their Commander bade. The rabble immediately fell silent again. At that, he knew they understood that his words were not an empty threat. They had no reason to disbelieve him; the exact same thing had happened on Cassandra’s order to the rioters that had nearly burned down the town a few months ago.

Once he was sure they would listen to him, without interrupting him again, he crossed his arms and continued, “Despite what you may think, the truth of the matter is _we don’t know_ what happened. And until I receive orders to do otherwise, it is my duty to keep you all safe from whatever calamity occurred at the Conclave. That means staying here, in the Chantry, together. And whether or not you like it is irrelevant.” After looking pointedly at both the mages and the Templars gathered, the sound of the debris shower filling the silence, he continued, “Now. Are there injured among you?”

“We’ve got a few light wounds over here, ser, but nothing too serious,” one of the lay sisters replied, raising a hand and waving it to get his attention.

“There are linens and poultices in the back rooms. Sister Margareta, can you show them?”

“Yes, ser.”

“Everyone else, make yourselves as comfortable as possible,” Rylen said.  “It looks like you may be here a while.”

At that, people began dragging crates and chairs out of the side rooms and offices, spreading out as much as space would possibly allow. He and Rylen made sure that their men kept sharp eyes on everyone and yet also attended to their needs, fetching food, bandages and blankets from the Chantry’s stores. Josephine, after calming the group of nobles in the rear of the building, picked her way up to the doors where Rylen and Cullen still stood and offered the latter a small smile of encouragement.

“You handled that well,” she said, tucking a loose lock of dark hair behind her ear.

Slowly, the sound of falling debris began to ebb, and the people began to talk more freely amongst themselves. The hum of their conversations grew louder as he replied, “Yes, well. The last thing we need right now is people trying to kill each other out of fear.”

“Agreed,” she nodded. Then, after a few moments, she asked, “Leliana and Lady Pentaghast went to the Temple, didn’t they?”

“Last I heard, yes,” Cullen nodded in affirmation.

“No runners yet,” Rylen remarked, glancing back at the door. “I’m starting to worry.”

Cullen pressed his lips together, “So am I.” There were scouts and mercenaries farther into the valley. If they had survived, surely the two Hands would have sent them back to the village by now, either to get them to safety or send word or both…

As if on cue, shouting voices outside accompanied pounding fists on the Chantry door. Rylen and Cullen immediately turned around and opened them to find a whole group of mercenaries and scouts standing there, most of them severely wounded with blood running in rivulets down their armor. A few were carrying their unconscious comrades on their shoulders.

“Healers!” Josephine shouted, making a pathway for the injured through the throng of startled villagers.

“Commander!” one of the scouts pressed forward as the others were let into the Chantry to receive treatment for their wounds. His voice was shaking as he spoke. “Seeker Pentaghast has sent for you…she and the Nightingale are closer to the Temple. They’ve asked for reinforcements…there are demons!”

Cullen felt gooseflesh prickle on his arms, and the hairs stood up on the back of his neck.

_Maker’s breath…_

“Demons?” he repeated. When the scout nodded emphatically, Cullen turned to Rylen. “Gather a contingent of Templars and have them ready to leave with me at the gates in five minutes. After, stay here and keep things together while I lead them to the Hands.”

“Right away, Commander!” Rylen saluted.

He started to sprint for his cabin, but he had not gone two steps when he saw the glowing light in the sky, pulsing brighter now and drawing more clouds towards it like a whirlpool. The whole sky above was turning an ominous grey, as if a storm was gathering.

The light was getting bigger.

The words of the Templar in the Chantry swam back to the forefront of his mind as he resumed his run for the cabin. The presence of demons naturally followed magical disasters and deaths of catastrophic proportions, and whatever it was in the sky was most certainly arcane in origin. It was undoubtedly related to the explosion in some way. What if the Templar was right? What if, yet again, a mage had attacked the Chantry?

_Of all the times to quit the lyrium, Rutherford._

He burst into his cabin and headed straight for his armor stand. He did not wear the entire harness all the time, merely selective pieces for better comfort and ease of movement. The extra, more protective plates he now strapped onto himself, gloved fingers moving quickly from buckle to buckle. As soon as he had secured each piece to his person, he grabbed his helmet and jammed it onto his head, dashing back outside and not bothering to close the door behind him.

As he headed for the town gates, Cullen noted that the area was now littered with fallen rocks and shingles. He even thought he saw a Templar shield that had been rent in half. Most of the buildings looked to still be intact, although something had punched straight through the roof of the Singing Maiden. Upon reaching the gates, he was relieved to see that Rylen’s contingent was already there – a handful of Templars, three warriors and three archers. “Your orders, ser!” one of them shouted as they saw him approach.

“Follow me, quickly!”

“ _Ser!_ ”

His eyes focused beyond the fangs of his helm as he followed the trail out of the village at a jog, forcing himself to slow down. If the Hands had asked for reinforcements, then significant fighting was possible in the very near future, and they could not afford to exhaust themselves before they even reached them. Thus, he set a moderately brisk pace as he led them beyond the Penitents’ Crossing and into the valley beyond.

The farther they went, the larger the debris became. Massive logs blocked the path where whole trees had been uprooted by the blast, and they were forced to clamber over them to get to the path beyond. On top of that, enormous chunks of the roof of the Temple of Sacred Ashes peppered the mountainside, great golden adornments half-melted amongst twisted shingles in the snow.

“What in Andras…oh, _Maker_!”

He turned as one of the Templars retched and gestured to a chunk of misshapen and blackened armor where it lay on the damp earth not far from the path. Upon further inspection, it was an entirely unrecognizable bloody mass. There was nothing left to even suggest that it had once been a person.

Cullen felt his lip curl. “I am certain that we will have our vengeance for this in due time, but we _must_ remain focused. There are demons ahead, and we have to keep them from reaching the village. Once that threat is eliminated, we will collect any bodies we find for a pyre. Let us press on.”

“Yes, ser.”

The sights – and smells – only worsened from there. The acrid stench of blood and smoke stung his nostrils, now. There must have been hundreds of bodies, in whole or in part, that lay amongst the rubble where they had been thrown like dolls. The swirling vortex in the sky was getting closer, looming ominously overhead, and he noticed that a faint spiraling tendril of green light extended from the brilliantly-bright center to somewhere on the ground in the distance. Still there was no sign of Leliana or Cassandra, and Cullen’s concern only grew with each step. They were fast approaching where the Temple of Sacred Ashes _should_ have been, if memory served correctly…

Then, at last, he saw them. Cassandra stood toe-to-toe with a wraith on a rise while, at her side, Leliana rained deadly arrows at an unseen foe beyond. There were a handful of scouts and mercenaries with them – those who had been lucky enough not to have been caught in the blast or injured by the falling debris – embroiled in their own deadly duels with angry denizens from the Fade.

“Push them back!” Cullen roared, his blade singing as it sprang from his scabbard.

The Templars did not need to be told twice. Burning for revenge, they cried to the Maker for strength as they charged forward, pushing the demons away from the two Hands of the Divine. Swords shimmered, the air flickering with their power, and it took all of Cullen’s willpower to keep from doing the same and draining what little lyrium was left in his blood. Instead, he took advantage of the wraith’s preoccupation with Cassandra and rushed its flank, a single precise thrust of his sword rending the monster into a slimy detritus that smoked as it hit the ground.

“Commander! You made it!” she panted, the relief evident on her face as she beheld him.

“Just in time, it seems.”

The two watched, then, as the charge of the Templars pushed a good half-dozen demons back from the scouts. Between the new empowered foes and the arrows yet raining from above, the demons stood little chance, and it was only a few breaths more before the area finally fell still.

As the scouts and Templars whooped and hollered their victory, Leliana greeted Cullen with sadness in her eyes. “It’s gone.”

It was only then that he had time enough to notice what she meant. Looking around, he realized that the ridge they were standing on was the edge of a massive crater in which the entirety of the village of Haven could have been sat with room to spare. The earth had been pushed up in stony fingers all around them from the force of the blast, and at the heart of the caldera was only a few crumbling and blackened remnants of the foundation of the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

“ _Maker’s breath_ ,” he whispered, floored by the extent of the destruction that lay around him. He could not imagine the sheer amount of force involved in an explosion of this scale, and despite his growing suspicions about the mages, he could only guess at the source. The Templars and scouts seemed to have been suddenly struck by the magnitude of the damage as well, as they, too, had fallen silent.

At last, after a few moments, he asked quietly, “Have there been any survivors?”

“None, other than those we sent back to Haven.” Was Cassandra’s solemn reply. “And we have not had a chance to explore the ruins themselves to search for more. But there is little chance that anyone survived… _that_.” She gestured the charred stones ahead. “If anyone did, it would be a miracle.”

“We have to see for ourselves,” Leliana said, pulling another arrow from her quiver and carefully moving forward, “We must know for certain. That there is…no one.”

Cullen knew from her tone what the Nightingale was hinting at. It was a very great and unfortunate possibility that, in addition to all the mage and Templar leaders and most of the Grand Clerics, Divine Justinia herself was dead. If so, a mighty blow had been dealt to not just the Chantry, but to the people of southern Thedas as a whole. The Divine was the leader of the Andrastian faithful across half the world. Her death would demoralize _nations_ , and the world would plunge further into chaos than it already was.

But Leliana was right. They had to comb the ruins and know for sure.

“Soldiers, with me!” Cullen directed with sword aloft. “Stay on your guard and be watchful for survivors!”

With that, they began to follow Leliana further into the Temple ruins, picking their way over smoldering stones and corpses. Many a man and woman had been killed where they stood, their bodies now nothing more than charred masses of flesh and bone, jaws gaping open in silent screams. The sight caused a chill to run down Cullen’s spine, and dark memories once again threatened to claw their way to the forefront of his mind. An audible snarl escaped his lips as he forced them back and pressed on, eyes scanning every niche and shadow for potential enemies.

Pulsing green streaks of light that matched the glow in the sky above spiderwebbed across the bare earth and crackled with an unknown energy that set his nerves on edge. Scattered amongst the glowing rocks were humming scarlet crystals that looked suspiciously like the red lyrium that had overtaken Kirkwall’s gallows. The closer he came to these strangely warm and buzzing crystals, the more he feared that he was right; his stomach churned as he sensed a primal, savage rhythm that throbbed in his ears and in his veins in time with his heart…

At last, with great effort, he tore his eyes away from the altered environment and continued on into the depths of the crater after Leliana and Cassandra, keenly aware of every panting breath in his helm, every jingle of a buckle or clank of a scabbard against tassets.

And then, they found the source of the spiraling column of greenish light – a ribbon of that same eerie hue, hanging suspended in midair at the heart of the Temple, unearthly sounds emanating from it in roaring echoes. At once, the thing shuddered, and there emerged another handful of demons – more wraiths drawn into the world by death and destruction.

They leapt into the fray, not letting the demons get the chance to collect themselves. Swords flashed through green entities, sending them screaming back into the ribbon of light…and it was then that Cullen understood what it was.

When all was still once more, he pointed at the twisting green ribbon of power with his blade, “Cassandra, the Veil is torn! Whatever magic was performed here has ripped it open!”

“And what of _that_ , then?” the Seeker looked up at the glowing vortex above.

Leliana and Cullen followed her gaze and watched as another shudder of the tear in the Veil sent a hair-raising shockwave up the spiraling connection to the sky…

…and the maelstrom widened just a bit more.

“A hole,” Leliana breathed. “A breach in the Veil that is getting larger and larger with time. Perhaps it is the result of the creation of this one. Or, perhaps it is the reverse.”

“Andraste preserve us,” Cullen slowly shook his head in disbelief. “This…if we can’t stop this…”

“More and more demons will come through,” Cassandra supplied grimly, looking back at the shining ribbon that marked the tear in the Veil. “We will be overwhelmed.”

He stared at the ribbon of light, as did the Templars and scouts and mercenaries, anticipating another wave of demons to come through at any moment. It was then that a raw determination filled him, steeling his heart. If this was the beginning of the end, then he would not go down without a fight. “Only if we let them,” he replied at length, gripping his sword tighter. “I, for one, have no intention of sitting and waiting to be killed. If a solution can be found, then we _must_ hold back the tide while we search for it.”

“I agree that we should not sit and wait for death,” Cassandra remarked, yet her face bore an expression of skepticism, “but how will we stand against them in the meantime, Cullen? There are not enough armies in the world to stop the onslaught of demons if that ‘breach’ grows large enough, even if we could rally them all together. Time is against us, here, and almost all of the best arcane scholars we had were killed in the explosion.”

“We have to control the situation for as long as we can, and to do that, we need to keep the threat contained,” Cullen answered, gesturing around the perimeter of the crater. “We should station soldiers around the ruins, establish a forward camp as close as we can, and keep the pressure on these demons as they appear. We cannot afford to be pushed back while we search for a solution. Retreating is not an option.”

At that, he turned and addressed the scouts, mercenaries, and Templars. “All of you, move out! Once we arrive at the nearest bridge to the Temple, barricade the gates with whatever you can find and wait for reinforcements! We will hold this threat _here_!”

He then turned and marched out of the ruins with the others on his heels, the scorched pebbles crunching underfoot with the forcefulness of his steps.

_Or die trying._


	19. Chapter 19

They were leaving in droves.

Once news of what had occurred at the Conclave had been delivered to the people gathered at Haven’s Chantry, the place had emptied like a broken dam. Many of the nobles were the first to go, insisting that if they were going to die, then they would rather do it in the comfort of their own homes. They departed with their entourages in clouds of dust, urging their carriages forth with reckless speed. Unable or unwilling to help make a stand in Haven, a good portion of the native residents and most of the pilgrims who had come to witness the proceedings fled as refugees into the surrounding countryside, seeking shelter at other settlements under the banner of local nobility. On top of that, a good third of the soldiers, recruits, and mercenaries they had managed to gather together abandoned the village as well on the grounds that staying to help against apocalyptic sorcery was _not_ part of their original contracts. Moreover, the surviving Grand Clerics – those who had managed to stumble their way back to the village after being scattered during the explosion – also fled Haven to return to Val Royeaux, desperate to restore order to the Chantry by immediately convening a Grand Consensus to elect a new Divine.

Never mind the fact that there was a great breach in the Veil, and if they were all going to die anyway, then a newly elected Divine overseeing the end of the world would hardly matter.

Cullen hadn’t slept; how could anyone honestly sleep with a giant hole to the Fade on their doorstep? As time passed, they became more and more certain that was indeed what the “Breach” was – it grew steadily with every hour, and each time it expanded, it deposited more demons into the world, just as he and Cassandra expected. Moreover, it had begun to levitate great boulders, so that they hung suspended in the air between the Breach and the ground, and mysterious bits of smoking flotsam from the Fade sporadically fell through along with the demons. Such a sight was unnerving to say the least. And yet, despite how unsettling it was during the day, it was even more terrifying at night, when the light of the sun faded and that of the Breach bathed the land in eerie green. It tested every man’s resolve, including his own.

There were times when trying to stop such a thing seemed almost pointless…when he could only wonder if it really was the end of the world and how they could dare stand against such. The Chant said that the Maker would return when his children proved themselves worthy of him once again. But what if he had decided they were hopeless? What if he was wiping the slate clean? Ridding himself of his wayward children once and for all? If he was, then Cullen honestly couldn’t say he blamed him.

But no. If it was truly the end, then he would show the Maker naught but steadfastness in the face of adversity. He would not go meekly to his grave as a sheep to slaughter. And if it _wasn’t_ the end…if this truly was stoppable…then he would see to it that the people were kept safe from this disaster and that justice was delivered to the monster that had created it.

This attitude was one that his fellow leaders shared with him, a fact that was not at all surprising. Cassandra and Leliana mourned the loss of the Divine along with everyone else, their grief plain on their faces, and they also feared what was to come. Yet, the two Hands were still driven to protect the people and propelled by a desire for justice, which overrode their overwhelming sorrow. Josephine, who had been offered the chance to leave along with the rest of the departing nobles, had also elected to stay for the same reasons. Even Varric, whose presence was no longer required by Cassandra, was not among those who had departed the village; instead the dwarf had remained, helping ferry supplies and accompanying patrols into the valley with his trusty crossbow.

Despite all those who had fled, there were a great many who chose to stay with them. Most of the villagers had lived in the area for their entire lives and refused to be driven out, even by demons. Men and women who had not yet enlisted vowed to pick up arms in the defense of their homes, moved to take up weapons against this direct threat. They equipped themselves with whatever they could find, assisted by a man named Harritt, who had arrived in Haven less than a day before the Conclave disaster. Now a volunteer smith for their soldiers, Harritt recruited a few young lads among them who had a knack for forge work and immediately set about managing repairs and sharpening weapons.

Even more surprising were the numbers of both rebel and loyalist Templars and mages who also offered their services against this threat, a force greater than their differences. One such person was Adan, apprentice to Master Taigen, who had, according to Adan himself, been among those who had perished at the Conclave. With Cassandra’s permission, Adan now helped the lay sisters with mixing poultices and salves and brewing restoratives from the herbs in the Chantry stores.

Few nobles stayed, but those who did promised money and soldiers, immediately penning orders to be sent via messenger to their home estates and helping Josephine to find more allies to stand with them. Furthermore, great numbers of lay brothers and sisters of the Chantry remained to offer comfort and prayers for the citizenry and rites for the dead. Grand Chancellor Roderick was deeply distressed about it all, torn between staying in Haven to assert his authority over the members of the Chantry there and fleeing back to Val Royeaux with the rest of his ilk.

As for Cullen, his first priority was ensuring the safety of the village, then establishing a forward camp, and then expanding their defenses from there. Haven already had an impressive stone wall, reinforced by a wooden palisade – fortifications that were likely originally put in place to fend off against bandit raids and even excursions by the Avvar barbarians. To reinforce these extant walls, he ordered the construction of more watch platforms manned by a handful of archers each and barricades for the gates that were guarded by both Templars and mages.

As soon as the village itself was as defendable as it could be, Cullen expanded operations to include a forward camp at the closest bridge to the Temple ruins. There he sent a hefty number of soldiers, Templars, mages, and healers to act as a first line of defense against whatever else came out of the Breach and the rift. At every bridge between Haven and the forward camp, Cullen ordered the setup of smaller outposts with more barricades, between which he set up regular rotating patrols.

Finally, once all these defenses had been well-established, Cullen sent small groups of volunteers to venture into the valley and collect the remains of the dead for the pyre that the Chantry sisters maintained outside of the town. In addition to giving the deceased the proper rest and rites they deserved, it was imperative that they prevent the possession of the corpses by the growing number of demons in the field. Not only was such an occurrence a heinous violation, but the denizens of the Fade were also much easier to combat in their raw forms. Cullen knew that demons, especially those that were still disoriented and not allowed enough time to adjust to the world, were somewhat predictable, and thus more vulnerable.

In short, it was as if Haven were an anthill that had been kicked by a petulant child. The village and surrounding areas were working alive with people who struggled to gain an advantage over this unexplainable magical threat that had taken over their lives in less than a day.

Twenty-four hours after the explosion, Cullen was still on his feet, making his rounds about the village to supervise his men and make sure they were prepared for anything. Runners came with messages every half hour, and with each message he would either send more orders or revise extant ones, depending upon the information he was given.

He did not even notice Cassandra until she was right up on him. When he finally saw her, he blinked at the sight. There the Seeker was before him, with one hand on her sword hilt and a chunk of dark bread in the other, chewing thoughtfully as she watched the Breach swirling in the sky behind him like a giant whirlpool.

When she met his gaze, her brows rose, and she immediately tore off a piece of the bread and extended it to him, “Here.”

His brow furrowed and he shook his head in refusal, “Cassandra, I can’t-”

“You _must_ ,” she insisted, pushing the bread at him. “I _know_ you haven’t eaten or slept. I understand that it is difficult, but you know as well as I do that you need energy if you are to keep going. You’re going to collapse in the street if you do not take care of yourself.”

Amber eyes met brown and held each other’s gazes for several long moments. Then, finally, he sighed his resignation in an aggravated huff and quickly took the piece of bread, shoving it into his mouth for no other reason than to appease her. But as soon as the dry crust hit his tongue, he was struck with the hunger he had ignored for hours, the sensation so powerful it threatened to knock him over. The day-old bread suddenly tasted heavenly, and his empty stomach demanded more. He both tried to keep his chewing slow and measured and his discomfort hidden, but it was a nearly impossible feat.

Cassandra did not fail to notice his expression and jerked her thumb at the Singing Maiden, “There’s more at the tavern. Flissa’s not charging for anything right now. Best to get something while the situation is fairly quiet. Rylen and I can handle things in the meantime.”

He hesitated, but she put a hand on his armored shoulder and began pushing him in the direction of the tavern. “ _Go_.”

“All _right!_ ” He swatted at her gloved fingers as he turned to obey.

He sounded irritated, but in reality, he was thankful. It wasn’t an order and he knew it; Cassandra was just honestly worried for his well-being. He realized that and appreciated it, and he also appreciated her assistance. He was grateful for both the Seeker and the Knight-Captain’s valiant efforts to ensure his orders were carried out to the letter. They only had a few hours of sleep more than he, at most.

He entered the tavern to find a handful of Leliana’s scouts there, eating in almost complete silence. The atmosphere here was the same as elsewhere in the village and a thousand times worse than before the Conclave blast – an oppressive blend of anxiety and fury, with crushing grief added to the mix. The smell of Flissa’s stew on the fire was no longer a comfort. Instead, it felt almost wrong, as though it were some forbidden temptation to experience in the midst of all this death and destruction.

Before the door had even closed behind him, Flissa leaned forward on the counter, a sort of desperateness in her eyes that stemmed from her overwhelming desire to help in some form or fashion. “Commander! Please…let me know what I can get you!”

“Stew, bread, and an ale, if you will.”

“Right away!”

He chose to wait at a table in the corner, nodding quietly in acknowledgement to Leliana’s men as he passed them by. As he took his seat, he bit his lip to suppress an audible groan as his knees first bent and then buckled, the clatter of his armor following as he practically fell into the rickety wooden chair. He hadn’t actually sat down in more than a day, and his joints protested the movement. Once he was settled, he was made fully aware of the throbbing of his feet in his boots and the weakness of his legs. He could hear Cassandra’s words of concern echoing in his mind, and he knew he needed to sleep, to rest, but it felt physically impossible. Every part of him ached with fatigue, and yet his mind was working like lightning, unable to shut down. Perhaps he would seek out Adan for something to help…

At that moment, Flissa appeared at his elbow with his food. “Here you are, ser!” She set everything before him quickly and neatly, and then stepped back. “Just let me know if you need anything else.”

“Thank you,” he replied wearily, and she smiled broadly in response, even though it was a nervous sort of smile, meant to comfort herself as well as him. He knew, then, that she needed some words of encouragement. In this situation, sometimes words were all that were needed to keep up morale…something they could not afford to lose. Thus, before she turned around completely to leave, he stopped her. “And Flissa?”

“Oh…yes?”

He caught her gaze and dipped his head a bit as he reassured, “You _are_ helping. It may not seem like it, but you are.”

At that, her face appeared to light up a little, and he thought he saw tears of emotion flash in her eyes as she nodded to him, “Thank you, Commander.” Then, she walked back to the bar, her back a little straighter.

Once she was gone, he removed his gauntlets and vambraces and began to eat. It took all his strength not to wolf down the food like a ravenous beast, his body craving fuel. It was delicious, without a doubt, but part of him felt he had no right to enjoy it. To be eating near the comfort of a roaring fire when there were dead, dying, and gravely injured pouring into Haven, and his men were battling creatures out of their worst nightmares out in the field, seemed downright _sinful_. The Divine was gone, one of the holiest sites of the Chantry destroyed, hundreds of men and women murdered less than a mile away, and on top of it all, a giant Breach in the sky was dumping demons on their heads and growing with every hour.

_It is for the cause._

He could console himself only with that simple fact. He _had_ to keep himself going for the rest of them.

Yet Cullen was not the only one who was running himself into the ground. As his thoughts wandered to his comrades, he recalled that Leliana and Josephine were still in the Chantry, desperately trying to find _someone_ who could tell them anything about this Breach and how to close it.  Between the two of them, they must have already penned a hundred letters. The last time he had seen the Ambassador, her hair was down, her jewelry was cast aside, and her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, a grim expression etched onto her face as her quill scratched across parchment at lightning speed.

Leliana had pulled all of her scouts in the mountains and surrounding foothills back to Haven, redirecting them to the area around the Breach. Only a select few she utilized for message delivery. The rest were reinforcements for their remaining mercenaries and soldiers. Though he frequently saw the Nightingale venture out from the Chantry, he had noticed that she had become much more withdrawn than usual. She was quiet, even more distant than before, as if some sort of dark shadow had cloaked her, and if he was honest with himself, he was more than a little concerned. He knew from her behavior after they had returned from the ruined temple that she had been emotionally close to Divine Justinia, perhaps even more so than Cassandra. Grief was etched on the faces of all, but it had carved itself most deeply into Leliana’s and had erased the spark of light from her eyes.

But though Cullen did not know Justinia personally, that did not mean that he was not affected by the Divine’s death as well. The Andrastian faith was more than the Chantry, true, but the murder of its head was a blow that was felt by all. It was as if it underscored the distance of the Maker from them all; the death of the Divine and so many faithful only emphasized the darkness of humanity and its innumerable failings, further justifying the reason for the Maker’s abandonment of them. It made the world feel colder, as if the light of hope had been all but extinguished.

And here they were, desperately trying to stoke the flames with an ember.

Suddenly, as he finished the last bite of stew and wiped the bowl clean with the final bit of bread in his hand, the door of the tavern burst open. In entered Varric, his leather coat covered with demon detritus and Bianca on his back. From beyond the door, he could hear the sound of a noisy crowd gathering in the distance.

“Cullen! You need to come out here.”

He knew instantly that something serious was happening, namely from the dwarf’s distinct lack of usage of his nickname, but also from Varric’s overall demeanor. Somewhat alarmed, he rose from his seat. “What’s going on?”

The dwarf shook his head and gestured for the commander to follow him. “It’s best if I tell you outside.”

Brow furrowing, Cullen gathered his armor, nodding his thanks again to Flissa before heading out of the door. Once outside, Varric shut the door behind them and took Cullen aside, speaking quietly. “Your men got a prisoner near the Temple…they handed her off to Rylen who gave her to Cassandra. The Seeker’s taking her to the Chantry to keep an eye on her.”

Cullen’s brows rose, and he took a step back, “A prisoner? Where from?”

“That’s where it gets a little crazy, so bear with me. Your soldiers are saying she got dumped out of a new rift near the big one and then immediately fell unconscious, but that’s not even the strangest part of it. They’re saying they could see some woman behind her in the rift, making sure the prisoner got out all right, but wouldn’t come out herself. Descriptions vary, but they all say she was tall and glowy. A few of your men are already suggesting it was Andraste.”

“ _What?_ ”

Varric snorted, “Yeah. And here’s something even weirder. She’s got a magical mark on her hand that matches the Breach in color, and it keeps smarting and sparking every time the hole in the sky grows. This prisoner is somehow connected to the Breach, for sure.”

“Then there is a possibility she is our perpetrator,” Cullen replied, casting his eyes between the buildings to see a group of soldiers carrying a limp figure into the Chantry. Cassandra and Rylen were not far behind them.

“And that’s why you’re needed,” Varric caught his attention again and gestured towards the gates, where a group of soldiers were arguing with each other and an audience was beginning to gather. “When people got sight of that mark on her hand, they started calling for her death before your men even got her past the bridge. She’s not even conscious, so she can’t defend herself yet,” he paused for a moment, and then added, “verbally or otherwise.”

Cullen’s brow furrowed. He knew the people were eager to see the Divine’s murderer brought to justice, but they couldn’t allow an innocent woman to pay the price to appease a mob. “However suspicious she looks right now, we can’t judge her before we know the truth,” he replied, crossing his arms.

“It’s not just you saying that,” Varric continued. “Those men who were convinced the glowy woman was Andraste? They’re saying the prisoner must have been sent through with the tool to close the Breach and are arguing for her protection. Word of the capture is spreading like wildfire all over, both sides are spreading rumors that are getting crazier by the second and, well…” he trailed and pointed at the growing crowd around the soldiers. “You see my point.”

“Right,” Cullen took in a breath, knowing very well what Varric was hinting at. “Go to Cassandra and ask her if there is anything I need to do. In the meantime, I’ll try to head off a riot.”

“Sure thing, Curly.”

With that, Cullen strode forward, one hand on the hilt of the sword at his hip and purpose in his steps as he headed for the crowd at the gates. As he unapologetically shoved his way through the throng gathered there, he could already hear his men bickering beyond.

“…Andraste really did send her? Maker, she could save us all, and you’re too stupid to see it!”

“And if she wasn’t, she could _kill_ us all, too! Obviously you’re too dense to see _that_ , you idiot-”

“ _Enough!_ ”

Cullen’s sharp bark cut through the air as he broke through their audience, silencing the argument then and there. His soldiers’ eyes widened at his approach, and before they could say anything in protest, he pointed at the gates and demanded, “Tell me why you aren’t at your posts.”

“W-well…ser…there’s a p-prisoner.”

“She came through the Fade and w-we brought her here!”

“She could have done it, ser! She could have-”

His raised hand silenced them again.

“What the prisoner may or may not have done is none of your concern,” he said sternly, his words laced with annoyance. “The situation will be handled by the Hands of the Divine. _Not_ you. Unless your input is requested, which it has not been, or your orders change, which they have not, you will return to your posts immediately and continue your watch, is that understood?”

Fists struck chests in salute.

“Y-yes ser!”

The handful of soldiers spun and scrambled for their watch posts, not eager to anger him further.

Once satisfied they would no longer be trouble, he turned back to the crowd around him with voice raised, “And that goes for the rest of you, too! Back to your duties! We still have a Breach to work against!”

They dispersed, albeit slowly and with much grumbling, and he remained standing there for a few minutes to ensure they didn’t linger. He knew he couldn’t stop people from talking – gossip would spread whether they wanted it to or not – but he _could_ keep them occupied and help prevent tensions from escalating into an all-out brawl, which would do no one any good.

Then, he saw Rylen heading down the village stairs towards him, a grave expression writ on the man’s face. He hadn’t seen the Knight-Captain so serious since the cleanup in Kirkwall, and it was more than a bit disconcerting to witness.

“Commander,” the Templar said as he approached, his brogue unusually thick from fatigue. “Cassandra has sent for you. They’re discussing what to do about the prisoner and want you in on it.”

Nodding, Cullen clapped his hand on his second’s shoulder, “You should probably get some rest if you can.”

He shook his head, “Can’t. Another rift has opened. I’ve already got men on it, but I may have to go afield to help.”

“ _Damnit_ ,” Cullen hissed. The situation was worsening rapidly.

Rylen offered a light chuckled, “Don’t worry about me. It was about this bad when the Starkhaven Circle went down. I made it through that, I can make it through this. I probably have more sleep on me than you anyway.”

With that, the Knight-Captain proceeded towards the gates and Cullen began heading for the Chantry. His own weariness made itself known again, his headache throbbing in the back of his skull and his knees protesting as he climbed the village steps for perhaps the hundredth time in the last day. He lifted a hand to wipe a stray lock of hair out of his face and noticed that his fingers were trembling uncontrollably. At first, he thought it was just because of how long he had been awake. But then…

_Maker, has it started?_

He suddenly realized that half of his troubles could have been stemming from the first stages of lyrium withdrawal, and he cursed his ill luck. How typical was it that the first time he saw to his own needs, did something for himself and not for anyone else, a disaster made him regret such a selfish move?

But as his thoughts fell upon the lyrium kit, he felt his stomach churn, and the urge to vomit nearly overwhelmed him. No, if they were going to die here, then he would die a free man. That was the end of it…

…That was the end of it.

Suddenly, he found himself standing before the Chantry, his memories of passing through the village abuzz with activity but a blur. Maker how he needed sleep, but they had just begun to fight…

He opened the doors and entered the dark Chantry, waiting for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the dim lighting. There, at the far end of the building, he slowly made out the forms of Cassandra, Leliana, and Josephine in deep discussion. The flame of the candle on Josephine’s writing tablet bobbed as she gestured with it, and Cassandra’s sword and shield glinted with the Seeker’s shifting back and forth in the torchlight.

He could hear their voices well before he reached them.

“…that thing that keeps flaring up on her hand. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Whatever it is, I don’t like it.”

They fell quiet, though, as they saw him approach, each nodding their greetings.

“You have a prisoner, or so I hear,” Cullen remarked as he neared.

“Yes,” Cassandra replied, her voice short, “We do. And she has already been secured. I will begin questioning her the moment she awakens.”

“That could be a while,” Leliana remarked, putting one hand on her hip. “We might have to forcibly awaken her. Adan could help with that, I think.”

“In the meantime, we should attempt to find out exactly who she is,” Josephine added, “That alone could provide us much information.”

“And how do we do that without waking her up first?” Cullen inquired. “Did she have any identifying items on her person?”

Josephine offered him a small smile, “Well, I noticed she had the symbol of the Circle of Magi on her patchwork armor. It was difficult to see for the grime, but it was there. That narrows it down considerably.”

“So she is either a loyalist Circle delegate, or a rebel,” said Leliana, glancing Cullen’s way as well.

“That does a great deal to explain this strange ‘mark’ people say she has,” he crossed his arms. “The question is, did it create the Breach, or is it a result of the explosion, somehow?”

“If she is indeed a mage,” Josephine replied musingly, “then either option is equally as likely.”

Cassandra’s expression hardened, and she paced back and forth out of sheer frustration, running her hands through her short-cropped hair. Her voice was heavy with emotion. “If she is responsible for this…”

“Then we will see justice done,” Leliana replied, her tone reassuring. “She will be sent to Val Royeaux for sentencing.”

“However,” Josephine interjected pointedly, “we must not ignore the possibility that she could be an unfortunate victim of circumstance. We will not know anything for certain until she awakens.”

“And even then,” Leliana added, “She might not tell us the truth.”

“If she doesn’t,” Cassandra inhaled slowly, “then I will pull it from her by force. I _will_ know what happened here.”

“I’ll admit,” Cullen rubbed his neck, twisting his head from side to side to try and ease the cramped muscles, “Whatever it is on her hand is rather damning. As is the fact she is the only known survivor. There are already people in the village calling for her death, but-”

“Lady Seeker!”

Of a sudden, a voice came from the doors of the Chantry. There was a Templar, his helm tucked under one arm as he walked briskly towards them. When he was sure he had Cassandra’s attention, he paused his advance and continued, “There is an elf mage at the gates. He says he believes he can help against the Breach, and he wishes to know if he can speak with the leadership here.”

They all exchanged wide-eyed glances before Leliana pushed forth, “I will handle this. Let me know if the situation changes.”

They watched her leave with the Templar, the Chantry door closing behind them both with a loud _bang_. A few moments later, Josephine spoke again, scribbling a few notes all the while. “I will do what I can to find out about this woman. We may have to bring in the mages in the camp here for interrogation, or to see if any among them can identify her.”

“In the meantime,” Cassandra added, “I am having a contingent of soldiers watch her in the prison. If she tries anything with that mark of hers, she _will_ die.”

Cullen took in a breath, glancing from side to side to see if there were any lingering Chantry sisters, and then stepped closer to the two women, his voice but a murmur. “Have you heard what the men are spreading around about this prisoner?”

“About her being the culprit who opened the Breach with her mark?” Cassandra asked, “Yes.”

“No, there is another.” When she and Josephine looked at him quizzically, indicating they had not heard the other side of the tale, he sighed and continued, lowering his voice even more, so that they had to lean forward to understand him. “There are a few who maintain that there was someone in the rift behind her when she fell through. Judging from this figure’s appearance and actions, they are certain that it was Andraste.”

At that, both Josephine and Cassandra’s brows rose, and the former’s eyes widened a little. “Are they?”

“Yes,” he nodded gravely. “And they are fairly adamant about it.” He looked away, pausing for a moment, before continuing, “They think Andraste sent the prisoner through to save us. I don’t know how true that is. I wasn’t there. I didn’t see it.” His lips pressed together, “But…it is something to think about.”

He stepped back and sighed again, “Whatever the case. There is certainly more to this than meets the eye.”

Cassandra stood there for a moment, looking down at the stone floor as she absorbed his words, and Josephine was silent beside her. It was then that the Seeker’s face relaxed, and her own exhaustion became more evident in the dark circles around her eyes and the way her mouth pulled downwards at the corners. At last, she looked up and met his gaze, her expression steeling once more.

“Yes, there is. And it is up to us to find out the truth. Whatever that may be.”


	20. Chapter 20

“Commander!”

Cullen’s head turned when he heard the distant call. A red-faced young lad, one of Leliana’s scouts, stumbled through Haven’s gates and kept plowing forth at a breakneck clip, headed straight for him. His brow furrowed as he noticed the frightened expression on the young man’s countenance, and he steeled himself for bad news. He knew it was coming; it was only a matter of time before the situation would begin to deteriorate more rapidly and their somewhat stable position would be dismantled bit by bit.

“Commander…urgent message to deliver, ser!” the messenger panted upon reaching him.

“Report.”

The boy gasped for air, leaning on a barrel and clutching at the stitch in his side as he passed along his message. “New rift…opened past the forward camp…closer to Haven. Knight-Captain Briony…is holding…but has asked for reinforcements.”

To punctuate his words, there was a shuddering crack that rang out from the Breach, accompanied by a bright green flash pulsing through the air in a physical vibration that caused the hairs stand up on the back of Cullen’s neck. The periodic expansions of the hole in the Veil were increasing in frequency, and it seemed the growth was causing more and more rifts to open up around the valley as the Veil itself gradually lost strength.

Despite their attempts at maintaining a brave face, they were losing hope, and fast.

Turning back and keeping his expression as reassuring as possible, Cullen clapped an armored hand to the messenger’s shoulder. “Good work. Go find someplace to rest and recover. I’ll send for you if I need you.”

The lad’s expression shifted to one of weary gratitude. “Thank you, ser.”

Once he was gone, Cullen gestured to a sidelined messenger near the gates, “ _Jim!_ ”

The man gave him a blank look for a moment before snapping out of his shock and nearly tripping over his own feet to get to him. “S-ser?”

Cullen sighed, resisting the distinct urge to pinch the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “We’ve got another rift in the valley where Briony is set up and she’s asked for reinforcements. Get to the patrol between the Crossing and the second bridge and tell them I’ve ordered them to reroute to Briony’s position. They should defer to her command and give me a report on injuries as soon as they are able.”

Jim blinked, his mouth open slightly.

_Maker’s breath, this man is insufferable…_

“ _Now!_ ” Cullen barked.

“Y-yes ser! Right away, ser!”

Jim scrambled away, almost plowing face-first into the dirt before recovering his balance and charging for the gate.

Cullen took in a deep breath, drawing copious amounts of cool air into his lungs, and exhaled slowly. His anxiety was making him short of temper, and the slowly-developing lyrium withdrawals weren’t helping matters at all. Finally succumbing to his body’s sheer exhaustion, he had managed to find a few hours of sleep the previous night, which he had _thought_ eased his trembling hands. However, an hour or so after he had awoken again, the tremors returned. He couldn’t even write a legible sentence, and so now his orders were delivered to his various units by word of mouth.

He also increasingly found himself fighting sporadic spells of chills and cold sweats, symptoms he had suffered after the fall of Kinloch Hold. The magic of the Breach was dredging up nigh-crippling memories he had buried under a decade’s worth of effort. It took all of his strength of will to control them, pushing them back behind the wall he had built in his mind, but always they were poised to spill over again. They threatened to resurface even when he wasn’t consciously thinking about them, and he feared what they might make him do…

On top of that was the knowledge of the growing number of demons in the field, spilling out of these rifts and falling out of the very sky. The irrepressible urge to find his lyrium kit and resume his consumption of it tickled at the back of his mind, torturing and taunting him.

_You need it…need it for stability…need it if you are to help your men who are dueling demons at this very moment…_

His fists clenched.

_No. I will fight them without it if I have to._

To his great frustration, Cassandra refused to let him take the field personally for the time being. She insisted that she and Rylen be the ones overseeing the various units in the valley on their way back and forth from the forward camp. When he had protested, she had reasoned that he needed to conserve his energy for when he really _was_ needed out there, which was only a matter of time. It seemed like sound logic at first, but doubts had begun to plague him.

At times, it felt as though she were coddling him, holding him back for his own preservation, trying to keep her commander safe from harm. Other times, he sensed she was not confident in his abilities to lead in a situation like this, something that none of them had ever anticipated. Though he fully well realized that both cases were, in all actuality, highly unlikely, these thoughts nevertheless gnawed at the back of his mind as he struggled to follow her orders. She was the one who recruited him, and thus he felt he had no right to disobey her, and yet, at the same time, he wanted nothing more than to be out there fighting alongside the men he had hired and trained, helping to hold back the tide of demons. He _needed_ to be there. He knew the value of an extra sword and the knowledge of someone who had been trained to fight such beasts. He could make a difference…

But without the lyrium, that difference was significantly minimized compared to that of the other Templars under their command. Perhaps _that_ was why she was holding him at bay…

He closed his eyes briefly, forcing himself to release the tension in his arms. When he opened them again, he saw Cassandra herself approaching from the direction of the Chantry, pushing her matted hair out of her eyes as she wandered towards him. Her emotions were never well-hidden, and her frustration and worry were apparent on her face as she met his gaze and nodded to him in acknowledgment. He shoved his own doubts and fears behind his mental wall, then, determined not to let her know of them. They were all under too much duress as it was.

“What is the word on the prisoner, Seeker?” he asked when she neared enough to hear him, curious as to how they were proceeding with the captive.

Cassandra sighed, crossing her arms as she drew up next to him. “After reading Leliana’s report on the apostate elf, I decided to let him study the prisoner to see if he can discover anything about the mark she bears while she is still unconscious. His name is Solas, and from what Leliana tells me, he seems to have extensive knowledge of the Fade and its effects on the living. He has promised to use that knowledge to help us find a way to close the Breach, which he claims is something that will eventually swallow the world if not stopped. I am currently awaiting his findings.” She looked off in the direction of the Breach, visibly wincing as another shockwave erupted from it. “I will admit, it is a painfully slow process.”

“Time is not exactly a luxury we have right now,” Cullen remarked, following her gaze and watching as a spray of smoking rocks plummeted from the hole in the sky.

“No, it is not,” she agreed. Then, motioning to him, she continued, “Come. Leliana wished to speak with you about a scouting squad she sent through the mines to the Temple.”

Brow furrowing, he followed in silence, wondering what had arisen. As they walked, he noticed that many of Haven’s villagers were either avoiding each other entirely or immersed in heated arguments as they repaired torn armor and replaced bloody bandages. The tension and fear in the air had only grown in the last day, in part due to the swelling of the Breach, but mostly because of the presence of the prisoner. The populace remained firmly divided concerning the marked woman; half believed her to be the culprit behind the whole disaster, while the other half was unsure of her or hoped she could help them somehow. Both sides, however, were scared out of their wits, frightened at what she was and what her presence might mean for them all.

If he was honest with himself, Cullen did not know what to think of it. He could not say that the prisoner’s being a mage did not concern him, that her possessing an unknown magical anomaly on her body did not worry him, or that her falling out of the Fade did not make him ill at ease. All of those factors most certainly _did_ do those very things. However, he was not about to condemn her when he had no proof of her wrongdoing.

That was something Meredith would have done.

What primarily concerned him at the moment was the possibility that the strange mark on her hand would do something none of them expected, up to and including transforming her into an abomination. He could only hope that she retained her will while unconscious and could still defend against demonic intrusion, both from within her mind and without. If not…

He shook his head to clear it. It hadn’t happened yet, and perhaps they would remain lucky.

As the two warriors finally entered the Chantry, they found Leliana and Josephine in deep discussion in an alcove not far from the doors. At the burst of light into the dark interior, they stopped their talk and looked towards the entrance. The ambassador, Cullen noted, had managed to pull her hair back up into a tight bun, her appearance less disheveled than it had been the previous day.

“There you are,” Leliana said as she spotted him. “I wanted to talk with you. Have you any unusual reports lately? I sent a small group of scouts to the Temple, but they have not sent any runners or ravens back yet, and it has been a good amount of time. I thought something might have delayed them.”

“I just received word of a new rift opening closer to the village,” he replied. “Perhaps that is the cause. I already rerouted a patrol that way after reinforcements were requested.”

The Nightingale sighed, putting her hand to her forehead. “This is not good. Our men are being spread too thin.”

“Something I have been _trying_ to remedy,” Josephine added, her usually calm tone more than a little aggravated. “But it seems almost every local noble with any significant forces whatsoever is far more content with waiting for the problem to come to them than sending their soldiers to delay it. We do have a small contingent of Orlesian guards coming at the behest of a few of the remaining nobility here, but they won’t arrive for another two days.”

“And in the meantime, we cannot afford to lose what men we do have,” said Leliana.

Cullen was about to offer a possible plan when an elf garbed in ragtag Circle robes suddenly burst into the Chantry, causing them each to start at the sound.

“I _have_ to see her!”

Cassandra immediately blocked his path, her hand on the hilt of her sword. “Hold! Who are you?”

The elf’s face bore an expression of pure panic as he halted in his tracks and frantically glanced between the four of them, his heterochromatic green and brown eyes widening as he noticed the Seeker’s readiness to draw a weapon on him. He inhaled slowly to calm himself before replying clearly, his hands held upwards in a sign of peace. “My name is Danlan. I am a mage from the Circle of Ostwick. Our Archmage led us here for the Conclave. If your prisoner is who I think she is, then that’s her. And I can tell you right now that she didn’t do this! No matter what you think, she didn’t murder the Divine!”

Josephine’s brows rose as she remarked, “I think we should let him see her.” When that garnered a strange look from Cassandra, the ambassador hastily added, “At least, from a safe distance. Through the door.”

Glancing between the elf and the Seeker, Cullen nodded, “I agree. If he can help identify her, then I think it would do much to clarify the situation.”

At last, after several moments of contemplation, Cassandra huffed, “Very well. Danlan, you say? Follow me.”

Cullen, Leliana, and Josephine all stood back to let the elf follow at the Seeker’s heels before bringing up the rear themselves. The three exchanged looks of curiosity as they went, descending into the prison beneath the Chantry. Each knew what the other was thinking – were they lucky enough to have someone on hand who could identify her so soon?

When they finally reached the cell in which the prisoner was being watched by a ring of armed guards and observed by the elven apostate, the Seeker stood back and gestured to the door for Danlan to look through. He approached tentatively, and his eyes squinted as he peered through the barred window. Then, as they beheld the figure beyond, they widened in both shock and horror at the sight that Cullen himself could not see: she was on her knees, her hands shackled together, one ungloved palm smarting and crackling with eerie green light every few minutes; her head was bowed as she slept where she sat, and her raven-black hair was half falling out of her ponytail, laced with dirt and grime; her ragged outfit of cobbled-together equipment was filthy, and her pale face was smeared with mud and blood. But despite her condition, she was apparently instantly-recognizable to the elf, who slowly backed away from the door.

“That’s her! Maker, that’s _her_! That’s our Archmage! Oh, sweet Andraste…what _happened_ to her?”

“You’re certain?” Josephine inquired, scribbling away on her tablet of parchment. “Please, tell me all you can about her. Was she loyalist? A rebel?”

Danlan shook his head back and forth rapidly, and Cullen could tell that his hands were trembling. “ _No_ , we were – _are_ – all loyalists. She led us from the carnage when our Circle fell…she kept what was left of us safe before bringing us here when we heard about the Conclave.” He took a breath to steady himself, and then continued, speaking very slowly so that Josephine could record his words accurately. “Her name is Verana-Kathryn Trevelyan. She is the daughter of the Bann of Ostwick. Or _a_ daughter,” he glanced away briefly as his brow furrowed in thought. “I think she has siblings. Several. If I remember right, she said one of them was a Templar.”

“The Trevelyans,” Josephine repeated as she continued to take notes, her quill scratching loudly. “I have heard of them…minor Marcher nobility, yet still somewhat prominent in local politics. They are quite the ancient house, if I remember correctly, and tied to several other noble families in the region.”

“Would she have any reason to attack the Divine? Disrupt the proceedings?” Cassandra crossed her arms.

“No!” Danlan’s eyes widened again. “Maker, no, she…she is one of the faithful herself! At least, as far as I know. And she would never dream of doing something so terrible! I tell you, _she didn’t do it_! Besides, she didn’t have that… that _thing_ on her hand before we arrived!”

“But she could have obtained it after she left for the Temple, or even at the Temple itself,” Leliana replied pointedly.

“No, no, this _can’t_ be her fault!”

“Please, Danlan,” Josephine said, her tone a soothing one in an attempt to calm the elf. “Is there anything else you can tell us? Anything at all that might be of assistance?”

He ran his hands through his sandy-brown hair. “She came here to help achieve peace. That’s all. She hated this war! She hated what it did to the Circle! It was our _home_ before rebel mages decided to take it down in flames. Maker, she would never do anything to perpetuate this conflict or to hurt the Divine. Please, I know I have no proof other than my word, but you _must_ believe me!”

Cassandra shook her head. “We cannot go on your word alone. We will question her ourselves when she awakens.”

“ _If_ she awakens,” Leliana added.

“Though we _do_ thank you for the information you have provided us,” Josephine inclined her head to the elf gratefully.

“I…” the elf trailed, obviously unsure of what else to say. He looked almost defeated as he sighed and turned to leave, “You’re welcome. I…I hope it is useful.”

With that, he walked quietly down the prison corridor to the stairwell, his robes rustling only slightly as he walked, his shoulders hunched. He had obviously hoped to convince them of her guiltlessness, but Cassandra was right. His word alone would not be enough.

Once Danlan was gone, Leliana pulled her hands behind her back and glanced between them. “So, it seems she has a friend.”

“A friend who quite adamantly vouches for her innocence,” Josephine remarked.

“Which is either true, or she has put up a very convincing act. Enough to fool those closest to her,” Cullen observed.

“Either way,” the ambassador said as she scribbled down a few more notes, “the chances of her being a victim in this affair are becoming more likely.”

Suddenly, the elven hedge mage opened the cell door and then closed it again behind him before offering them each a slight bow in greeting. He was a slim, lithe man of shorter height than each of them, but he carried himself with an air of self-assuredness that was not like that of most elves whom Cullen had met before. He wore plain breeches and a loose tunic, his feet all but bare, his only adornment a wolf’s jawbone on a leather cord around his neck. His bald pate shone a bit in the low light, his sharp features thrown in high relief and his tawny eyes sparkling as he regarded them.

“Well?” Cassandra prompted expectantly.

“I bear what I would think to be good news,” he said, the elf’s manner of speech striking Cullen as quite peculiar for some reason. “Firstly, you should be comforted by the fact that she is not possessed in any way, shape, or form. You likely already suspected such, but I felt it prudent to confirm it. By luck, intervention, or her own strength of will, she has been spared from such a fate. For now.”

The Seeker was quiet, and Cullen saw her dark eyes squint at the elf, as if she was suspicious of Solas’s honesty. Josephine and Leliana both watched her expectantly, exchanging slight glances. After a few moments, however, Cassandra at last nodded. “Continue.”

“Secondly, the mark she bears on her hand is most certainly connected to the Breach, as you have no doubt already assumed. I believe it to be a side effect of the creation of the Breach, branded upon her palm the same moment the hole in the Fade was formed. If it has the same source as the magic that produced this Breach, as seems likely, then it could be possible that this Mark holds the power of sealing the Breach itself.”

The Seeker’s brow furrowed. “How?”

The elf glanced away, as if thinking for a brief moment, before answering, “I will spare you the technical details and say simply this – what is done can, very often, be undone. The Fade is mutable, subject to changing simply on the whims of those who imagine there. Why should we assume that any hole torn in the Veil that separates us from the Fade is any less so?”

Not waiting for a response, Solas continued, “This mark is perhaps best seen as a key...one that both locks and unlocks. As a key fits a lock, this mark seems to fit the Breach, and perhaps has the power to seal it again by virtue of the fact that it stems from the selfsame magic.”

“Unfortunately,” he added, his tone grave, “the very act of possessing this key is destroying your prisoner. She is slowly dying as it consumes her. It spreads from her hand with each expansion of the Breach, and the faster the Breach grows, the more quickly her deterioration will occur. I have done what I can to stall this progression, but know that is all I am able to do. We must hope she wakens quickly, or she will perish before we can even attempt to stop the Breach.”

“ _If_ it can be stopped, as you theorize,” Cassandra remarked, her heavy skepticism evident.

“If there is even the slightest possibility that it will work,” Leliana countered firmly, “we _must_ try.”

Solas nodded his approval before continuing. “To know for certain that my theory is correct, however, the Mark would need to be tested somehow.”

“I just received a report that there is a new rift nearby,” Cullen replied, “Perhaps that would be sufficient?”

The elf then inclined his head to him. “I would very much like the opportunity to bring the prisoner to one of these smaller rifts. If my theory holds true, and the power of the Mark can be used to close it, then it would be safe to assume that the Mark will also work on the Breach itself. ”

At that moment, Varric approached from the corridor, his coat even filthier than it had been the day before. He looked to each of them in turn before addressing Cullen, “Hey, Curly, they sent me back to tell you…that new rift is under control for the time being. You’ve got a handful of soldiers returning with Briony to the village to get their wounds patched up. One of them has some broken ribs. Other than that, everyone is still alive. At the moment, at least.”

Solas turned back to Cassandra, “Seeker, perhaps you would let me replace some of your wounded. My knowledge of the Fade _does_ include how to fight its denizens, and I think it would be of great help to be able to study one of these rifts up close, at least until the prisoner awakens.”

The Seeker glanced to Leliana, who nodded. Sighing, Cassandra replied, “Very well. Varric, would you escort Solas to this rift?”

“Of course, Seeker,” Varric replied, his tone dripping with sarcasm, “As always, I live to serve.”

As he bowed to her, Cassandra rolled her eyes in disgust. Solas, however, seemed somewhat amused at the sight, as a small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. Nodding respectfully to each of them in turn, the elf gently pushed past them and followed the dwarf down the hall towards the stairs.

“Do you think he is telling the truth?” Josephine asked, once Varric and Solas had disappeared around the corner.

Cassandra shook her head, “I honestly don’t know. And that scares me. To think we have to put our trust in an apostate who just _happens_ to show up when we need him.”

“The timing is most certainly suspicious,” Leliana concurred.

“Or fortunate,” Josephine replied pointedly.

Cullen sighed, “I don’t know if it is any consolation, but most of what he said seems to ring true, at least from what little I know about magical functionality and the Fade. I suppose the question now must be whether or not our prisoner will cooperate with our experiment.”

“She has no choice,” Cassandra said flatly. “If she does not help close the Breach, and what Solas says is true, then she will die and we will be doomed. She must help us, at the very least, to save herself.”

“We will need to be ready to help her, as well,” Leliana added. “The prisoner _must_ get to the Temple alive.”

“I agree,” Cullen replied, propping a hand atop the hilt of his sword as he began to formulate a plan of attack. “And that means we will need to concentrate our forces in the valley to try and clear the way as much as possible. Rylen is already at the forward camp. I will bring what men I have in the village and as many as I can spare from the outposts to –”

“Lady Seeker, she’s waking up!”

The sudden loud call came from within the cell, causing each of them to turn towards the door in slight alarm.

At that moment, Leliana put a gloved hand on his shoulder. “It seems we won’t have to wait as long as we feared. Go ahead to the forward camp. I will meet you there after we interrogate the prisoner, and then we can decide how to proceed.”

He nodded, and as the two Hands turned from him and made for the cell, he and Josephine departed the prison, the only sounds after the loud creak of the door opening being his own heavy footsteps, accompanied by the lighter ones of the ambassador. They said nothing to each other during the walk, even as they reentered the Chantry proper, until he was at the doors and he heard her say very quietly behind him, “Good luck, Commander.”


	21. Chapter 21

Cullen’s armor clanked with every step as he entered the forward camp, quickly garnering the attention of all those who milled around the bridge and gates awaiting orders. He clutched his helmet under one arm, shifting its weight in his grip as he spared a glance towards the Breach just over the mountains. The storm-grey clouds churned overhead as they were drawn towards the brightly-glowing maelstrom over the Temple ruins. It seemed impossibly large now, as if it were already swallowing the world in its terrible maw. He subconsciously gritted his teeth together as the power pulsating from it set his nerves on edge and sent a shudder down his spine.

“Your orders, ser?”

Rylen had quietly moved to his side and now stood there with his hands behind his back, stalwartly awaiting instructions. His Templar armor was worn, battered, and stained with the filth of demons, and yet the warrior still wore it with dignity. He watched Cullen with a sharp gaze, not yet dimmed by the weariness that had begun to weigh him down, and he gave his commander a small nod of assurance.

“Get the men to form up on the other side of the bridge. I want everyone who can hold a weapon against these monsters. Leave only the stationed guards at the gates.”

“You’ve got it.”

The Knight-Captain then turned and began barking orders over the din of the camp, gathering the soldiers, mercenaries, and scouts who were yet fit to fight. As Cullen looked on, he noticed Chancellor Roderick slowly approaching at the edge of his field of vision, arms folded across his chest and watching as the men Cullen had brought with him from the village and outposts passed them by, following Rylen across the bridge.

“And what is all of this, Commander? Pouring even more men into a desperate attempt to hold the line?” Roderick asked, his tone bearing a note of haughtiness.

Cullen bit back a sharp quip and instead replied shortly, “No.”

“Then what is it?” Roderick pressed.

The commander’s answering glare seemed to take the Chancellor by surprise for once, as Roderick reflexively flinched when Cullen’s head abruptly jerked in his direction. The man recovered quickly, however, meeting his gaze with narrowed eyes and adding, “Let me guess…you’re leading a valiant charge to push back the tide? And at what cost? For what purpose? I cannot allow-”

“In case you haven’t noticed, Chancellor, I don’t answer to you,” Cullen hissed, taking his helm in hand and settling it on his head. “We have a chance to end this now, and I will do everything in my power to ensure that if we fail, it will not be because I was afraid to risk my life for the people who depend on us.”

 _Unlike you_ , he thought.

For a moment, Roderick seemed too stunned to say anything in response, and an unseen smirk pulled at Cullen’s lips behind the fangs of the lion. The Chancellor was under the unfortunate assumption that he had any control over anyone at that camp other than the lay sisters who tended the wounded, desperately clinging to what piddling authority the Chantry had granted him. Cullen, Leliana, and Cassandra did not serve the Chantry anymore – that had ended with Justinia’s death – but Roderick was still stubbornly operating as if they did in a desperate attempt to elevate his standing.

“I can see why Seeker Pentaghast hired you,” the Chancellor sneered at last, leaving Cullen to guess the reason to which he was referring. “And as for this ‘chance’ you speak of…tell me you do not believe these misbegotten rumors that your prisoner can do anything to help us. That you aren’t leading men to die for the sake of a _mage_ who-”

“That’s _exactly_ what I’m going to do,” Cullen replied, leaning in so that he was peering down at the Chancellor from beneath the shadows of his helmet, the muzzle of the lion inches away from Roderick’s forehead. “Because if I don’t, then there is an even greater possibility that _everyone_ , _everywhere_ , will die. I cannot say whether or not she can help us, or whether or not she murdered the Divine, or whether or not she has been guided by the Maker any more than you can. But unlike you, I’m not going to sit back and let the world end because my _pride_ won’t let me admit that-”

“ _Commander!_ ”

Leliana’s breathless call suddenly came from his right. She jogged up to him, her pale face reddened by wind and exertion. His brows rose as he realized she must have run all the way from Haven to have arrived so soon after him. He noted that her bow and a full quiver of arrows were strapped to her back.

“Are you all right, Sister?”

She nodded, giving him a very small appreciative smile before adding, “The prisoner is on her way. Cassandra is taking her to the rift where Solas and Varric are so they can test the Mark. If all goes well, she’ll be brought here next.”

“This is _ridiculous_ ,” Roderick muttered as he stormed away.

Ignoring the Chancellor, Cullen jerked his thumb behind him, to the other side of the bridge. “I brought as many men as I could. They’re forming up on the other side under Rylen’s direction.”

“Good,” Leliana replied, her lips thinning. “We need to make sure she gets to the Temple, no matter the cost.” Glancing to the mountains where the Breach hovered, the Nightingale paused and added, “I did think of something, though…something I will bring up when they arrive. Perhaps it would be a better to have our forces charge head-on at the ruins as a distraction, so that we might go through the mountain path more safely, rather than all of us pursuing the same route together and risking the prisoner’s life in the battle. Is that a plan of action you would be agreeable to, Commander?”

Cullen followed her gaze as he absorbed her words, resting a hand atop the pommel of his sword. After a few moments, he answered, “Yes…it would save us having to look out for her personally. And if we can draw the demons away from the ruins, then perhaps you can move even more quickly.” Returning his attention to her, he nodded again, “Right. If that is the plan Cassandra ultimately wishes to follow, I will not object. We will draw their attention for as long as possible.”

Leliana crossed her arms, moving to a table that had been set up with a map of the area atop it. Not looking back up at him as she examined the map, she answered, “I will wait here and give you a signal, then, if you are to proceed without us. If not, we will, of course, join you on the other side.”

He inclined his head, “At your order, Sister Nightingale.”

At that moment, there was a loud crack from the Breach, followed by a smaller one that resounded outside the gates through which Leliana had just arrived. Shouts of surprise followed, and Cullen and the Nightingale glanced to one another with eyes wide and brows lifted.

“There’s another rift!” the guards cried.

“Seal the gates! Quickly!”

The order caused both Cullen and Leliana to share looks of borderline despair as they shook their heads. This couldn’t go on much longer.

“At least the prisoner will have plenty of practice,” the Nightingale finally remarked darkly before sighing. “I’ll make sure nothing comes through but Cassandra and the prisoner. Go on, and make sure the men are ready.”

“At once.”

Cullen then spun on his heel and headed in the opposite direction, towards the gates beyond which Rylen had assembled all the men they could bring with them to the ruins. His boots were heavy on the cobbles as he walked, and he was acutely aware of the sound of his own breathing inside his helm.

They stood in formation on the road to the Temple, at attention, not a sound to be heard among them as he strode from the gates to where they faced Rylen. The Templars among them stood in their own unit to the side, as did the archers; there were no mages with them, as Cullen feared what the presence of too many demons might do to them. As he made his way towards the front of the company, Rylen nodded to him in acknowledgement, now with his winged helm on his head, and saluted. “Ready and awaiting your orders, Commander!”

Another crack erupted from the Breach, and Cullen squinted at it to make sure it wasn’t going to rain demons on their heads. After a few breaths, satisfied they would be safe for the moment, he returned his attention to his men. Though their discipline kept them nigh motionless, he could see the fear in their eyes and in the tiniest waver of the weapons in their hands. He could feel his own heart pounding a little harder in anticipation of the battle to come, and he took in a deep breath to steady himself. This battle would decide the course of history, a fact that weighed heavily on his shoulders.

Glancing about, he saw a nearby boulder, and he jumped atop it to make himself more visible to all the soldiers assembled as he prepared to address them. He had thought about what he wanted to say to them as they had marched to the forward camp, knowing they would need a speech that would transform fear into hope and anger into focus.

“Defenders of Haven! Hear me now!”

Heads turned towards him with a ripple of silver that was tinted green with the light of the Breach, accompanied by the occasional bob of feathers and dancing of plumes. As Cullen looked down on this ragtag company of Templars, mercenaries, scouts, and hastily-trained recruits, he drew his sword, the blade ringing out of its sheath with the clarity of a bell.

“We have lost much in these past few days, bringing darkness into our hearts, just as the Breach has unleashed darkness onto the world. But the Chant reminds us that even in darkness there is hope! And that sliver, that chance, is why we stand here, now, together. Here we make our stand, so that the Breach might be closed once and for all! Here we charge into darkness, so that we might protect our loved ones and all that we cherish! We will take the fight to these demons who invade our world! We will let them taste our steel and arrows! We will exact vengeance upon their hides for our losses! And if we die here, then we will do so with honor, fighting so that others might yet live!”

Nods and murmurs ensued, filling the air with a soft hum.

He raised his blade high, “Are you with me?”

There was a roar in response, blades crashing against shields. Cullen smiled. They were brave souls. He only hoped that bravery would be enough. He hopped down from the boulder, scanning every row for a last-minute equipment check and making eye contact with each man and woman there. He wanted them to know that they were not lost in a collective…that he was not sending them into battle without knowing that his forces were comprised of people and not mindless weapons.

Then, a sharp whistle split the air. Glancing to the bridge’s gatehouse, he saw Leliana waving him forth, her bow in her hand as she stood in the archway.

It was the distracting charge, then.

“Templars! Form a vanguard and follow Knight-Captain Rylen’s command!” He shouted.

“ _Ser!_ ”

“Archers, defend the flanks and fire when clear!”

“ _Yes, ser!_ ”

“The rest of you! Keep ranks and advance with me!”

He moved them forward at a brisk pace behind the assembled Templar vanguard, very nearly jogging. Armor clanked and breaths panted loudly inside helmets, puffing out tiny clouds of moisture in the cool air, which quickly condensed on steel visors. Chains jingled, potions clinked, and quivers rattled. These sounds blocked out even the eerie noises constantly emanating from the Breach that loomed ever nearer as they closed in on the ruins. Cullen felt his skin prickle, the hairs standing up on the back of his neck as a cold sweat beaded upon his brow, his own breath becoming shaky with adrenaline. He shrugged his shield upon his arm and adjusted his sword in his grip, forcing himself to focus. Memories of Kinloch would _not_ cause him to lose this fight…

“Steady!”

Rylen slowed the Templars ahead of them, stretching them across the road to form a barrier between the demons and the rest of the soldiers. Cullen knew they would come quickly, drawn out by the sounds and sensations of living beings nearby, tempted by the presence of new prey. “Archers! Find high ground! Soldiers, stay steady behind the vanguard!” he shouted.

The marksmen scrambled up rocks and broken towers to find cover and better vantage points while Cullen paced alongside the right flank of his company. He could hear bowstrings tightening and boots shifting as the soldiers settled their weight.

“Here they come!” Rylen warned.

And, sure enough, they did. Out of the yet-smoldering ruins emerged flickering shadows – shades and wraiths, accompanied by Rage demons that smoldered in the gloom like embers on a cold winter night. On and on they came, like a river that had broken through a dam, rushing at them in an overwhelming surge…

“ _Steady!_ ” Rylen commanded the Templars.

“Stay behind the vanguard!” Cullen ordered, “Let them come to you!”

Arrows whistled overhead as the marksmen let loose their volleys as soon as they could find clear targets. They found their marks in the shades and wraiths, but that only seemed to spur the beasts onward, quickening the surge. The Rage demons struck the vanguard first, waves of fire crashing into the Templars’ raised shields but dissipating upon impact as the warriors willed the magic away to nothingness. The other demons then descended after as a massive shadow upon the company of soldiers; the wraiths were empowered by the Rage demons among them, and their forms shimmered like living fire amongst the darkness of the shades.

“Focus on the Rage demons!” Cullen roared from the flank as the Templars engaged the enemy. He knew they could weaken the wraiths if they removed their empowering force from the equation entirely, but the Templars would have to act quickly. Rylen echoed his order, and lyrium-powered blades sang as they struck demon flesh.

Almost in response, the Rage demons swelled in size as the shades and wraiths pushed forth, feeding off of the emotions of their prey. The demons flickered in and out of existence, the Veil so weak that they could use it to blink past the frontline. The soldiers were quick to act, charging forward and cutting down the demons already enfeebled by the power of the Templars as they fought. For the longest time, it was as if two tides were pushing and pulling against each other, neither side gaining or giving ground.

Cullen shouted encouragements, striking down any wraith or shade that managed to emerge on the rightward flank. The company held together remarkably, despite the demons that managed to flicker past the Templars. Again and again, their foes were reduced to smoking ash and flotsam at their feet…

All semblance of order was lost, however, when suddenly, out of nowhere, demons with spidery legs and gaping jaws erupted out of the ground in the middle of the ranks, sending soldiers and weapons flying into the dirt.

 _Terrors_. He had only heard tale of these particular demons born of fear; until now, Cullen had never personally witnessed one attack. He knew instantly, however, that if he let them, these beasts would scatter his whole company across the Frostbacks with their horrifying power. Already, the rain of arrows was becoming more sporadic as the demons’ very presence began to affect his men’s minds.

“Rush them!” Cullen cried, hoping against hope that his voice would break the spell. “Give them no quarter! Hold together! _Hold!_ ”

One of the demons had pinned down a soldier, who was frozen on his back from sheer fright, his axe dropping from his shaking hands as he held them aloft to shield his face from the terrible sight that consumed his vision. Two of the man’s comrades nearby instantly fell to their knees, their hands clamped tightly over their ears as all reason was stripped from them.

And then, Cullen’s own ears were filled with horrific noises – the echoing memories of his friends screaming in pain as they slowly died, tortured to death at Kinloch Hold. Panic assaulted him in debilitating waves, a cold sweat chilling every inch of his skin. Feeding on the raw fear these memories brought, the Terror demons drew them forth from his mind just as they pulled similar memories from the minds of his men to render them helpless.

_No, no, NO!_

Fueled by resolve, Cullen growled audibly as he burst into action, charging at the Terror with blade uplifted. “Back to the Void with you!” he snarled, his sword tasting the blood of the beast as it first slashed through the creature’s spine and then thrust into its back, buried to the hilt in the demon’s flesh. He wrenched his blade free and spun to find the other Terror. Not two paces to his right, mercenaries struggled with the demon, which had already left one of their number dead on the ground at its feet and was working on another, claws gripped about the soldier’s neck and slowly choking the life out of him. His female comrade struggled to fight through the rivers of tears streaming down her face, her countenance contorted with rage and despair as she hacked like a madwoman at the beast, but missed with every strike.

Cullen dove low and swiped, his sword slicing clean through bone with the force of the slash as he took a leg from the demon at its knee. It lost its balance, dropping the soldier it held into a heap on the ground as it fell. Grabbing at his ankles, the Terror opened its mouth in an unearthly howl, but it broke off into a choked gurgle as the commander severed the creature’s head from its shoulders.

He whirled to assess the situation, eyes scanning the throng. The fight was growing more chaotic by the minute. The vanguard line was completely broken, now, three Templars already dead at the hands of Rage demons and shades – either burned alive in their armor or their life-force completely drained from them. The Terror demons had done much to demoralize the soldiers, and they struggled to regroup as more wraiths and shades pushed through their lines, sapping them of their strength and vitality…

Then, suddenly, there was a shuddering blast from the direction of the Breach. Cullen dared spare a glance in its direction, and what happened next nearly blinded him. A rush of magic erupted from the base of the spiraling column of green in the ruins and chased the trail to the hole in the Veil, where it burst into a brilliantly bright flash of light. The trail itself vanished and the air rippled, pulsing around them, shuddering through the demons among them. At once, the rocks stopped falling from the sky, and, if his imagination wasn’t playing tricks on him, the swirling of the vortex seemed to slow somewhat.

_Could it be?_

“Victory is at hand! Push them back!” He cried.

And then, he felt it. It was as if the cloud of oppressiveness that had hung over them for days had been lifted at last, and hope rushed forward to replace it. His men felt it too, war cries echoing among them as they began to recover their senses. The demons had lost the source of their energy, and the soldiers had gained one. Cullen could only watch as, one by one, the remaining demons fell, rent to pieces by his men as they charged forth, reforming into a group and pressing onward towards the ruins together until there were no more foes to fight.

“ _Victory!_ ” Rylen hollered as he ripped his helm from his head, thrusting his sword skyward in exultation. The blade glimmered in the light of the sun, which began to break through the dissipating clouds in the west for the first time since the explosion.

“ _Victory!_ ” Cullen echoed, answering the gesture with his own.

“ _Victory! Victory!_ ” the soldiers chanted, pumping their fists in the air and jumping up and down. They whooped and yipped, laughing and crying, clapping each other on the shoulders and helmets. Some dropped their weapons and fell to their knees in prayer and thanks for their lives. Others, unable to contain their emotions any longer, sobbed and wailed both their loss and their relief at the same time.

By the grace of the Maker, they had won, but such a victory came at a high cost. More than a dozen men lay dead around them, their lives ended before they could glimpse the sun again. Thus, to Cullen, their triumph was bittersweet. Once his men had collected themselves and had temporarily bound wounds to stop bleeding, he ordered the survivors to take the fallen and carry them back to Haven to be prepared for funerary rites.

Their slow march back to the village was solemn and silent, and though the sun’s light warmed their faces as they went, coloring the land in brilliant hues of orange and gold, the Breach still swirled – albeit much more slowly – in the sky behind them, stable but yet extant. Cullen brought up the rear along with Rylen, helping the wounded stragglers catch up to the rest. All the while, Cullen’s eyes scanned the area for Leliana or Cassandra, but they were not to be found, not even at the forward camp, and so he deduced that they must have made it back to Haven already. Despite his nearly overwhelming relief that the Breach had ceased to expand, he wondered what exactly prisoner had done during the assault and why the hole in the Veil yet remained.

He could only hope that the Divine’s trusted servants would have answers.


	22. Chapter 22

Three days after the Breach was stabilized, Cullen sat alone on the pier over the frozen lake, gazing at what remained of the hole in the Veil as it now lazily churned in the distance, hanging over them as a reminder that their doom had very nearly come to fruition. The temperature had turned even more frigid, quite possibly signaling an early transition to winter, and his breath left him as steady clouds of vapor in the morning air. A sharp breeze ruffled his hair and danced through the fur of his mantle, its icy tendrils stinging his skin to a pink hue on his nose and cheeks, all the while the steady rays of the sun warmed the leathers of his gloves and breeches. He smiled softly to himself as he let his eyes slide shut and concentrated on just these feelings for but a few moments. It felt good to be able to focus on such simple sensations after days’ worth of solemnly contemplating the end of the world. After such a close brush with utter destruction, he had gained a new appreciation for them.

He was not alone in such a sentiment. The denizens of Haven, after properly seeing their dead to rest and mourning for a day, had indulged themselves in celebration. There was no training, no maintenance of routines, no _anything_ but rest, recovery, and enjoyment of simple pleasures. They had just averted a disaster the magnitude of which Thedas had never before seen. Affairs of importance could wait for at least a few more days while they caught their breath.

But, despite their victory over the Fade, the fact remained that the Breach was still extant, even if it wasn’t pouring out demons anymore, and they could not ignore its continued presence for long. The mage who had risked her life to seal it had been, according to Cassandra, knocked unconscious immediately and yet remained so, last he heard. She was tended to by Adan and Solas as she recovered, and, by the grace of the Maker, she was slowly showing signs of improvement. He had been told that she was in excruciating pain prior to the Breach’s stabilization, and that it would take quite a long time for her body to recover from the severe trauma it had experienced.

On top of that, Haven was now conflicted about this woman, their savior, more than ever before. That she had stopped the expansion of the Breach was confirmation enough for most that she really _was_ sent by the Maker to help them, guided to them at the right place and time to save them from the evil machinations of whatever monster had created the Breach to begin with. To some, however, including the ever-vocal Chancellor Roderick, she had merely closed the Breach to save herself, and her efforts did not clear her from wrongdoing. An even smaller percentage of the local population firmly believed her to be the Divine’s murderer, to the point of attempting to kill her by their own hands in retribution; one such would-be assassin was only thwarted by the presence of Solas, who just happened to be in the cabin observing her at the time the miscreant snuck inside. Since then, Cullen had stationed a guard outside her cabin door, a man he knew he could trust, and had the windows sealed.

By some extraordinary coincidence, the commander had yet to lay eyes on her, despite the fact they both had been within the same village for days. If the accounts of his men were to be taken literally, she was everything from a terrifying, demon-possessed sorceress of unimaginable power to the magnificently beautiful reincarnation of Andraste. Indeed, some had even begun to call her the “Herald of Andraste,” a title coined by the soldiers who found her, who had been certain that the female figure seen in the rift where she had emerged was the Bride of the Maker herself. That epithet, which was becoming increasingly accepted by the general populace, had fanned the flames of controversy even more. _How could a mage be the Herald of Andraste?_ he overheard some ask. _Magic destroyed Andraste through Tevinter_ , they said, _How would the Lady have ever blessed the hand of a cursed woman?_ _She works only for her own gain, as all mages do._

But, according to both Cassandra and Leliana’s verbal reports, that was quite a false assessment. Despite the fact that she was apparently suffering severe amnesia due to the explosion, she willingly and even gladly went with the Hands to the Breach in order to do whatever she could to stop it. She was confused, obviously in pain, and even fearful at first, but she demonstrated bravery and determination in the face of adversity, voluntarily putting her life on the line for all their sakes. Not only that, but according to the Seeker, the Fade had ultimately revealed a secret that had exonerated her in both the Hands’ eyes: the Divine had called upon the prisoner for aid just before the explosion had taken place. To Cassandra, it seemed as though this Lady Trevelyan had interrupted the true culprit in the middle of the act and had merely been at the wrong place at the wrong time all along.

Or the right one, depending on perspective.

 _And what do_ you _believe, Rutherford?_ he asked himself.

It was a question that had hovered in the back of his mind ever since the prisoner had been found. In a way, she reminded him of Hawke: suspicious, at first, but very much a victim of circumstance, as Josephine had suggested. All evidence, however incredible, pointed to her innocence. Plus, she had witnesses of all sorts vouching for her character – those who knew her both before and after the incident. And, perhaps above all else, she had managed to secure the trust of Cassandra Pentaghast herself – the very woman who had been the most adamant of them all about the prisoner’s guilt from the outset. That feat alone was enough to satisfy him.

Yes, she was a mage. Yes, she apparently had enough power to warrant her Circle granting her the title of Archmage, a title he had only known one other mage to possess. Yes, she had a potentially-dangerous, suspicious, not to mention volatile magical anomaly branded on her palm by an unknown and possibly malevolent source. But he could not see how these factors made her _ineligible_ to receive the Maker’s favor or Andraste’s guidance. He had spent much time after Meredith’s defeat reminding himself that the Children of the Maker included mages, despite their dangerous gifts.

He didn’t know whether or not the prisoner was Andraste’s Herald any more than anyone else, something he continuously emphasized to anyone who pressed him for his opinion. But regardless of whether or not she really was blessed by the Maker, who were they to assume that she wasn’t for no other reason than because of her magic? Claiming to know the will of heaven was a temptation to which too many had let themselves fall, particularly those who were supposedly more educated in the ways of the Maker. He wasn’t about to let such hubris influence his own beliefs.

Pride. A demon, and a dangerous one. More treacherous than Desire, and far deadlier than Rage, though all were poisons for the soul, so the Chantry taught. He knew the sting of each, and their venom took far too long to leave his system.

Just like it was taking something else far too long to leave him.

He had hoped that after the Breach was stabilized, his nightmares would ease. And they did, somewhat, the hole in the Fade now blocked and thereby numbing its effect on his dreams. But blurry visions still danced in his head each night, tormenting him with memories and sensations that yet caused him to wake in cold sweats. The lyrium’s punishment did not stop there; his trembling hands continued to come and go in sporadic spells, sometimes lasting for hours at a time, rendering him unable to write for their duration. Now, to make matters even worse, he was beginning to experience chronic headaches, starting every morning after he rose from bed and throbbing behind his eyes just persistently enough to make him irritable for most of the day. This irritability was one reason why he had decided to come here, in hopes that the distance from the hubbub and the relative solitude would help mend his frayed nerves. To his great relief, in less than an hour’s time, the calm and quiet had done wonders, almost erasing his symptoms entirely…

… _almost_.

Unfortunately, the effects of his abstinence from lyrium yet persisted even now, dancing on the edge of his awareness, requiring only the slightest provocation to come rushing forth again. He knew it would only get worse in the future. But he would endure it. He _would_ persevere. He had to.

Suddenly, his brow furrowed as he thought he heard some sort of commotion coming from the direction of the village. Not a panicked one, thank the Maker, but there were more voices than usual humming in the air, gradually growing louder and louder. Curious, he rose to his feet, brushing himself off before heading towards the settlement. When he finally entered, he saw that there was a crowd so thick near the gates and around the main thoroughfare that he couldn’t see past them, and this audience chattered away like magpies in an unbroken buzz of conversation. Rylen stood to his right with arms crossed, and Cullen cast the Knight-Captain a quizzical look.

“You’re late, Commander,” Rylen teased in answer. “The ‘Herald’ is up and about. Just headed to the Chantry.”

“Oh?” Cullen asked with raised brows, somehow not surprised that he had missed her yet again.

“Indeed,” Rylen nodded, “though I’d be careful, if I were her. Roderick is liable to tear her to pieces himself if she gets within reach of him.”

Cullen smirked, clasping the pommel of his sword with both hands. “I’m certain that he is in far more danger than she, at the moment.”

“True,” Rylen chuckled, glancing in the direction of the Chantry. “Lady Pentaghast has been in a right state, and it seems like the good Chancellor is doing his best to push her over the edge.”

Then, as if on cue, Roderick’s figure suddenly could be seen forcefully pushing through the throngs of people that now milled about the streets as they slowly dispersed to continue their previous business. His reddened face, almost matching his tabard in hue, and his balled fists at his sides told the both of them that Cassandra finally had enough of his prodding. The Chancellor said not a word to anyone as shoved between them, not even in apology, and he didn’t acknowledge either Cullen or Rylen as he passed.

“There goes trouble,” the Knight-Captain muttered as they turned and watched Roderick burst through the gates, headed straight for the stables.

“So I imagine,” Cullen remarked dryly. Roderick had been a hindrance to the Hands of the Divine at every turn, especially now that the Breach had been stabilized. He had no doubt that wherever the Chancellor was headed, it was to find aid in his obstructionism. Likely in the form of the remaining Grand Clerics.

The excitement of the Herald’s waking steadily waned amongst the spectators that had gathered, and after a few minutes, everyone had finally cleared the main thoroughfare in front of the gates. It was not long after this that Cullen caught sight of a messenger jogging through the village, headed straight for them.

“Heads-up,” Rylen said, pointing.

Cullen nodded, watching and waiting for the courier to arrive. Once she reached them, the young woman gave him a brief salute and jerked her thumb at the Chantry. “Lady Pentaghast requests your presence, Commander. She says it is of utmost importance. She told me to tell you ‘It is done.’”

Both he and Rylen exchanged glances. That could only mean one thing.

“Very well. Thank you. I will go to her immediately.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

“So, this is it, then.”

Cullen, Cassandra, Josephine, and Leliana all stared at the heavy book – the final writ of Divine Justinia – that lay open before them on the table. Beside it sat the proclamation that the Ambassador had drawn together, the ink still wet and the wax of their seals yet cooling upon the vellum.

“Yes, it is,” Cassandra replied, her voice solemn.

“It is what the Divine wanted,” Leliana added, her hands pulled behind her back, “and now we must move forward with her plan.”

“ _Everything_ is here,” Josephine’s tone was one of awestruck reverence as she thumbed through the pages of the book, leaning forward in her seat. “There are schematics for armor and weapons, drawings of banners and heraldry…”

“All that is required now are people to create them,” Cassandra said, glancing to each of them. “I will speak to Harritt…perhaps he would like to formally join the Inquisition and begin making these weapons and armor for our recruits.”

“We will need access to raw resources to help make that happen,” Cullen remarked.

Josephine pushed back in her chair and sighed, “I have a few contacts that might be able to help with initial supplies, but it seems likely that we will need to collect those resources ourselves.”

“I will go see Adan,” Leliana added. “See if he also wishes to join. His skills have proven invaluable these past few days, and we need a great many healers if we are to keep our troops in fighting condition.”

Cullen nodded, “Agreed. I will also have a talk with Rylen and speak with the Templars who yet remain. When they first joined with us, they didn’t sign up for pursuing the Divine’s murderer, so I feel obligated to give them a chance to back out now. On the other hand, there are also former rebels who might be interested in offering their services, especially if promised protection and a salary.”

“The Herald has already gone to ask the same of the mages here,” said Cassandra, crossing her arms. “There is also one I wish to recruit personally – an elf by the name of Minaeve. She has been caring for the Tranquil in the camp, and it seems she has a talent for analyzing the strengths and weaknesses of creatures of all sorts, including the debilitating effects of venomous and magical beasts. I think we could use her skills to help our soldiers in the field and our healers here in Haven.”

“We should also speak with the remaining mercenaries and local recruits,” Josephine observed pointedly. “This work for the Inquisition was not part of their original contracts, and they should be informed that we do not expect them to join with us if they do not wish to serve us in this new capacity. As for payment for those who _do_ wish to remain with us,” she paused and sighed again, her gaze focusing on the writ as she continued, “we are not part of the Chantry anymore, and thus we have no access to Chantry funds. It will take quite a bit of work for the money to begin flowing again. However, once we issue our proclamation, it _will_ be easier for me to garner support from more pious individuals, especially those who held Justinia in high regard. Once they find out we are following Most Holy’s will and intend on bringing her murderer to justice, I am certain that we will obtain the coin we need. It will simply take time.”

“We will need to send messages across Thedas declaring our intent,” Leliana replied. “The sooner we spread the word, the sooner we will be able to gain support in all its forms – manpower, finances, and supplies. And, the sooner we will know our most public enemies, as well.”

Cullen propped his foot on his vacant stool as he leaned over the table, elbow braced on his knee. “I will set up road patrols as soon as possible. We will need to ensure the safety of the caravans traveling to and from Haven if we are to get anywhere with this. Our supply lines must be established quickly and kept clear at all times.”

Cassandra nodded, at last closing the book and bowing her head as if in prayer. The following silence that surrounded them was almost oppressive, each of them realizing they were about to take their very first steps on a road that, once they set foot upon it, would not allow them to turn back. Leliana closed her eyes briefly, as if gathering strength, and Josephine took in a deep and slow breath to collect her focus. Cullen pressed his lips together, eyes falling upon the proclamation that was ready to be nailed to the Chantry doors.

 “We have our first tasks before us, then,” Cassandra said at length, “and we have little time to waste. Come. Let us begin. And may the Maker be with us all.”


	23. Chapter 23

_Haven, Ferelden; Parvulis (Kingsway), 9:41 Dragon_

And so, it was begun.

Haven was still a chaotic place, but now that the Divine’s Inquisition had officially been established, that chaos seemed more organized than it had been before the Conclave disaster. Together, the founders of this new Inquisition, the brainchild of the late Divine, quickly took the reins, and over the course of the next two weeks, their fledgling order began its first steps towards flight.

Most of those people who remained in the settlement and had not yet pledged themselves to the cause found themselves the recruits of at least one of the four head members. Cullen himself had no issues maintaining his numbers; if anything, his roster had practically exploded. To his great pride, many of the surviving Templars pledged their loyalty to the new Inquisition, eager to see justice done to the one who had murdered the Most Holy and destroyed the Temple of Sacred Ashes. These were effective replacements for many of the hired mercenaries who, their companies significantly reduced in number and their original contracts null, had almost entirely abandoned the area for better prospects elsewhere…

…or an early retirement.

But the Templars weren’t the only ones eager for retribution against the Divine’s killer. Cullen had so many joiners from among the local villagers, men and women of all ages from Haven and other surrounding communities, that he was forced to assign separate training units to his newly-promoted lieutenants; he would no longer be able to personally oversee the training of every soldier, as there simply weren’t enough hours in the day to do so. One evening at the Singing Maiden, Rylen had joked that Cullen was amassing his own army right before their very eyes, but the commander could very well see that jest becoming stunning reality if recruitment numbers were maintained at their current astonishing levels.

Cassandra had done no small amount of recruiting of her own, as promised, and her efforts did much to help expand their forces as well. The Seeker was delighted when Harritt agreed to join the Inquisition as their official smith. He had done what he could to establish a proper forge near the stables, and he had taken on a whole team of apprentices to begin manufacturing of arms and armor for their soldiers. Now, the sounds of hammers striking anvils filled the air day and night as they worked tirelessly to supply the Inquisition’s militant arm. Furthermore, as luck would have it, a quick survey of the surrounding area had revealed an abundance of viable timber and iron ore, and Josephine had managed to convince villagers from a few nearby settlements to work in Haven as miners and lumberjacks in order to extract these natural resources. Eager at the promise of steady coin and food in their bellies, their families came with them, and they added to the Inquisition’s labor force a significant host of seamstresses, tanners, dyers, tailors, and hunters.

Even the Tranquil who had come to Haven seeking asylum from the war found themselves recruits of the cause at Cassandra’s request. Their guardian, the elven apprentice, Minaeve, directed them in her efforts to research all sorts of creatures that inhibited the efforts of the Inquisition soldiers. Minaeve worked with the intent of passing along whatever she learned to Harritt and their healers in order to further their development of proper equipment and tonics to help their forces survive the dangers of the various regions into which they were sent. Right now, those areas did not extend far past the Hinterlands of Ferelden, but Cullen anticipated that they would eventually expand into Orlesian lands, and perhaps even farther, if the Maker blessed their endeavors. Thus, he predicted Minaeve’s research would be beyond invaluable once they ventured into lands with which Cullen was less familiar.

Even Josephine’s various communications impacted their forces in no small way, and not solely in a financial context. Not long after she had sent letters to the courts of Ferelden and Orlais informing them of the Inquisition’s birth at the behest of the late Divine, the ambassador had passed along a responding message to him from King Alistair himself. His Majesty’s contribution to their cause was in the form of a veteran from the Battle of Ostagar – a woman who had served under the command of Loghain mac Tir during the Fifth Blight – who apparently was talented at managing the logistical affairs of large military forces.

Threnn, as the woman was called, would serve as the Inquisition’s quartermaster, distributing the equipment that Harritt and his apprentices manufactured at the forge, as well as ensuring that enough supplies were available to sustain their numbers. Cullen was appreciative of the aid, and between the combined efforts of the quartermaster and his new officers, he felt the pressure upon him ease somewhat, as he could refocus his attention upon expansion and establishment of outposts. It would take some getting used to. He didn’t usually like delegation – it meant he had to trust others to do what was right in his stead. He hated not being able to handle so many important matters on his own; he trusted himself to follow up on important information in a timely manner. Others, he was not so sure of.

He wasn’t the only one delegating, however. Adan, at Leliana’s request, elected to remain among their number, becoming the master healer at the head of an expansive team of mages and Chantry lay sisters whose sole tasks were to collect herbs, brew potions, and tend to the wounds of scouts and soldiers returning from the field. Adan, between designating tasks for his workers, had even managed to pull together a recipe for an herbal tea that would stave off the headaches and shakes plaguing Cullen on a day-to-day basis. To Cullen’s great relief, the concoction was comprised of ingredients they would need anyway for the rest of the soldiers, and thus required no special effort on the healers’ parts. The commander didn’t know how long such a draught would help him, but he was thankful for it and for Adan’s willing aid, and he told the man so at the first opportunity.

Amidst the flurry of all these activities, the mage they called the Herald had effectively hidden herself. According to the rumor mill, the pulse of which Varric constantly kept his thumb upon, she was still recovering from the events that had occurred at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. With the establishment of the Inquisition, the attempts upon her life had ceased, but Cullen kept the guard at her cabin door. As the Inquisition’s most significant recruit and the purported chosen servant of Andraste, she yet had a target painted upon her back, albeit for entirely different reasons now. Leliana had passed word along that the Chantry was officially proclaiming the Inquisition an illegitimate and heretical organization with the blasphemous Herald at its head, and many of the Grand Clerics were actively working against them to see them destroyed before they became too much of a threat. The Chantry feared that the people would turn to the Inquisition to solve their problems instead of relying on the Chantry’s well-established authority, and Cassandra was convinced that Chancellor Roderick was the one actively spreading such fear. Unfortunately for the Chantry, the people had already begun to turn their backs on them.

Not all of the Chantry’s members shared those Grand Clerics’ views on the Inquisition, however. It was not long at all before a letter arrived from the Hinterlands, signed by one Mother Giselle. According to Leliana, the Revered Mother had garnered the favor of Divine Justinia, and the two had become good acquaintances, if not friends, prior to the Conclave. This priestess had, in her letter to the Inquisition, expressed a desire to personally speak to the Herald of Andraste, the mage who had initiated a ripple of change in the Chantry and who now threatened their divine sanction. Scout Lace Harding, a Fereldan surface dwarf and recent recruit of Leliana’s, had conveyed the information that the Revered Mother was currently caring for the refugees at the Hinterlands Crossroads near Redcliffe…those who had fled to the area to escape the dangers of the mage-Templar war. It would be no difficult feat for the Herald to meet her there.

But from what Harding had also told them in various messages over the past few days, the condition of the Hinterlands around the Crossroads was precarious at best and rapidly deteriorating; the rebel mages and Templars who had fled the Conclave disaster had renewed their fight in earnest, each seeking to annihilate the other side in retribution for the Divine’s death. The hapless refugees were now caught in the middle of the freshly-reborn conflict, and, along with Mother Giselle, were effectively trapped by the fighting that surrounded them. Moreover, the reinstated mage-Templar war blocked desperately-needed supply lines to Haven, leaving their caravan routes limited until the threat was cleared.

Thus, it was to this area that Cullen dispatched his first freshly-trained and outfitted platoon, under the direction of Corporal Vale, a shrewd and competent young officer who the commander trusted to handle the situation along with Harding. Some semblance of order had to be reestablished quickly, and it was to their benefit to ensure that the people saw the Inquisition willing and able to do that very thing.

This matter was also the subject of their first war council, conducted in the room they had used to establish the Inquisition in the first place, which was now informally referred to as their “war room.” They had shoved two large tables together to support their maps and materials. Here he, Leliana, and Josephine now stood, passing suggestions back and forth while they awaited the arrival of Cassandra and the Herald.

Even though their primary goal at the moment was to find a way to close the Breach permanently, which involved finding allies who could help the Herald power her Mark, their first order of business had to be making the Inquisition as stable as possible. That included establishing the Inquisition as a legitimate organization in the eyes of the people by convincing, or stopping, their immediate opposition in the Chantry. It also involved garnering the trust of the people themselves by putting a halt to the mage-Templar crisis and making the surrounding areas safer in other ways, including closing additional rifts that had appeared across the land after the Breach’s creation. There was also the matter of making travel easier on patrols and recruiters, which meant obtaining a great number of mounts from local horse breeders.

The three advisors were in the middle of discussing this last matter when, suddenly, the door swung open with a loud creak, and Cassandra entered the war room, followed closely by the Herald herself. As the Seeker closed the door behind them once more, Cullen set eyes upon the woman whom his soldiers both feared and revered beyond measure.

He was a bit surprised to find himself looking slightly downward at her, even across the table; it seemed she was almost an entire foot shorter than he. She was slim, even petite in build, and yet she was not without presence. She carried herself with a confidence and grace similar to that of Josephine, only more powerful…and this was evident even through the new armor she wore, given to her by Harritt in thanks for her aid. Her stature suggested there was a delicateness to her that he had seen in many mages, but her deportment certainly indicated otherwise.

She was pale, her skin the color of ivory, like that of many Circle inhabitants he had known in the past, mage or otherwise. But in stark contrast to her complexion, her hair was as black as Leliana’s pet ravens. He could tell, even with it smoothed back in a ponytail as it was, that it was thick and wavy, loose bangs framing her face and softening her somewhat angular features. Her eyes were upturned, rimmed with long black lashes, and…purple? Blue? What color _were_ they? In the flickering torchlight, they looked to be both, like silk stained with expensive indigo dye or…

And then those eyes suddenly met his, something like a tiny hint of recognition in their depths as she looked at him. Her full lips pulled into a soft smile, and he felt his own lips mirroring hers in response, moving almost of their own accord.

“…of the Inquisition’s forces.”

He blinked. He had almost completely missed Cassandra’s introduction. Scrambling to save himself without revealing the fact he had heard practically none of the Seeker’s words, he tore his eyes from the Herald and glanced downwards at the table, “Such as they are. We lost many soldiers in the valley, and I fear many more before this is through.”

_Maker’s breath…snap out of it, Rutherford…_

With a great amount of effort, he managed to refrain from meeting the Herald’s gaze for the remainder of the meeting. Even as they returned to their hot debate about the most appropriate way in which to approach the permanent closure of the Breach, Cullen forced himself to focus on the discussion without letting those puzzling eyes of hers entrap him again – a task that was made even more difficult when he was treated to her voice for the first time, an almost startlingly melodic sound. Thankfully, she agreed to their proposal to answer Mother Giselle’s request for an audience, and they all suggested ways in which their influence could be expanded while she was at it – a necessary maneuver regardless of which option they ultimately pursued in respect to the Breach. As Josephine correctly pointed out, no one would assist them in their larger tasks if their legitimacy was not established quickly.

When the meeting was finally dismissed, the Herald’s first official Inquisition tasks before her, he couldn’t help but watch as she turned into Josephine’s office ahead of the rest, purpose in her stride, her ponytail bouncing on her armored shoulders. Cassandra and Leliana had already informed him of her earnest desire to help them in their efforts to close the Breach and pursue the Divine’s murderer, but now he had witnessed it first-hand, and he found himself more than relieved.

Their first meeting had also confirmed much of his soldiers’ talk as just that – talk. She was neither a terrifying witch, nor a walking manifestation of Andraste. She was, however, a woman who seemed to have a level head on her shoulders and a desire to do good for the people of Thedas, as evidenced by her willingness to help them. If she was worried or afraid or even indignant at having this role as Herald thrust upon her, she didn’t show it…at least not during this brief encounter. If anything, she was accepting and ready to move forward. Already, there seemed to be much to admire about her…

As he made a quick exit from the Chantry to return to his troops, he shook his head as if to physically clear her from his mind. The Herald was a mysteriously compelling person, for reasons that were somewhat difficult to fully comprehend. Guided by Andraste or not, able to ultimately seal the Breach or not, perhaps she was just the right kind of person they needed right now to propel them from their floundering position.


	24. Chapter 24

“Forgive me. I doubt you came here for a lecture.”

The apology came after he rabbited on about the potential of the Inquisition for what seemed like an obscene amount of time to someone he had only barely met, even if she _was_ their most important – and most influential – recruit. The Herald, on her way to the forge to pick up a new staff, had kindly stopped by the training area to ask if there was anything else she could do to assist at Haven before she finally departed for the Hinterlands with Cassandra, Varric, and Solas in tow. After politely declining her offer, he, like a blabbering fool, had proceeded to remark on her effect on the soldiers’ morale, the ever-rising enlistment numbers, and the capacity of their organization to do much more good for the world than even they could initially anticipate.

As if she would be remotely interested in hearing about that right now. She had enough on her plate worrying about closing the lingering rifts they had caught wind of, stabilizing the Hinterlands, and sorting out whatever damage Roderick was causing with the Chantry before it became irreversible. He realized rather quickly that his mouth was running away with him, and he put a halt to it before it could draw her ire, turning his attention to the report he’d been given by a passing courier before handing it back to the man to file away.

“No, but if you have one prepared, I’d love to hear it.”

Her response caused his head to snap back towards her in surprise, and he was then treated to the rather lovely sight of a wide and genuine smile from those full lips of hers. It was accompanied by a blink of feathery black lashes as she looked up at him, and he once again found himself at a loss for words as he met her peculiar eyes.

“I, ah,” he cleared his throat as he tore his gaze away, settling for watching the Breach instead of her eyes. “Another time, perhaps…”

The conversation seemed painfully slow, even as his mind raced to think of something else to say before it descended further into awkward territory. “There is still much work to be done…” he trailed, rubbing at the back of his neck as he struggled to conjure the right words.

“Herald!”

As luck would have it, Cassandra’s loud call came to his rescue, but he kept his relief hidden. The Herald’s head turned away from him, and the Seeker continued from her position near the training dummies, fully armed and armored. “We’re ready to leave when you are!”

“Ser!” Another messenger suddenly appeared at his elbow. “Ser Rylen has a report on our supply lines.”

He and the Herald simultaneously exchanged similar looks of resignation, and he felt his mouth pull into a smirk at the timing that so clearly illustrated his point. “As I was saying…”

“Yes, of course.” She nodded in understanding. “I’ll send a report on my progress in the Hinterlands as soon as I am able.”

With that, she strode briskly to where her companions for the journey had gathered, calling to them, “I need a staff, and then I’m ready!”

Even as he turned and made his way towards his tent, Cullen couldn’t help but glance back and watch her as she walked away, noting how well she wore form-fitting leathers…

_Stop it!_

He shook his head rapidly, forcing himself to refocus.

He broke the seal on Rylen’s report and quickly absorbed the contents. It was barely anything new; Rylen was simply confirming with his own eyes what they already suspected before sending him to survey the area. Between the leftover Fade rifts, of which they were getting increasing accounts, the reignited mage-Templar conflict, and bandits taking advantage of the growing instability, it was practically impossible to get supplies from Redcliffe and beyond to Haven without loss of life.

The Herald was going to have her work cut out for her, for sure.

The situation wasn’t any better from Orlais’s direction; just as it had the previous year, the War of the Lions had also taken its toll on the roads and farms throughout the Heartlands and the Dales, and though it wasn’t as chaotic as it had been in recent months, it was still dangerous enough to make imports from Val Royeaux almost twice as costly as they usually were in times of peace. It was a fact that Josephine had not failed to remind him each day since their first war meeting, as if he could magically establish patrols along every route to the Orlesian capital and convince caravans to drop their prices in a week’s time or less.

He huffed out a frustrated sigh, putting his hands on his hips as he glanced over the myriad of figures and reports before him. Orlais could wait. Ferelden was enough to handle right now. Once they managed to keep the refugees safe from raiding and clear the trading routes in the Hinterlands, _then_ they could focus on establishing a foothold in the Empire. Expanding too quickly would result in weakness.

They could not afford to be weak. Not for one moment.

The whole situation was enough to send one into a spiraling depression. He didn’t know how the Herald remained so positive – she was, perhaps the most optimistic one of them all, despite his own enthusiasm for the potential of their cause. This after being accused of murdering the Divine, coerced into stabilizing the Breach, nearly being assassinated, and surviving being marked  by a strange magical phenomenon that made her the only person in the world capable of closing Fade rifts. She seemingly let negativity roll off of her like water from a duck’s back.

He sincerely wished he could do the same.

Sighing again, he turned and emerged from his tent to continue his supervision of the newest recruits’ training routines. Business as usual.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

It wasn’t but a few days after the Herald’s departure when Cullen received word that a contingent of soldiers he had recently deployed to the Fallow Mire had completely disappeared. They had been sent there to investigate the rumors of Tevinter activity in the area, which Leliana suspected was somehow connected with the mage-Templar war. Alarmingly, all contact with the squad had been abruptly lost, and no subsequent efforts to re-establish that contact had been successful. It was a rather upsetting situation, particularly for the soldiers’ comrades, he noted, and he reassured the recruits that they would do everything they could to locate their brothers-in-arms. Cullen himself hoped for the best, but feared the worst. To compound matters, soon after the disappearance of the soldiers, Chancellor Roderick returned to Haven after his trip to Orlais. Cullen had been hoping the good Chancellor had decided to remain at the Chantry’s seat of power and out of the Inquisition’s affairs, but, unfortunately for them all, it seemed that it was not to be.

And, on top of all that, the mages and the Templars in the camp were beginning to grow restless, especially since most of them were rebels from both sides who had not yet fled into the countryside. It seemed that they blamed each other for the Divine’s death, now that the Herald was in the clear. It was ridiculous, if predictable, behavior, of course. No one had any proof of anything. But proof wasn’t needed to start a fight between perhaps the most volatile opposing forces in recent memory. He was in the middle of halting a burgeoning riot between the mage and Templar populations in Haven when the Herald and her companions finally returned from their jaunt into the Hinterlands. He was certain that the near-battle had been brought on by the gossip and constant prodding of Chancellor Roderick, who openly and purposefully challenged the commander about the true extent of the authority of the Inquisition before Cullen managed to force the frustrated crowd of mages and Templars to dissipate.

Despite Roderick’s best efforts, however, preparations for travel to Val Royeaux had already been made. Mother Giselle’s contacts, provided by the Revered Mother herself after arriving in Haven a week after the Herald’s departure, had already been contacted by the Nightingale, and Josephine had arranged for the trip to the capital to meet with them as soon as she had received approval from Leliana to move forward. The initial plan was to arrange a diplomatic affair between Josephine and the Grand Clerics, in order to officially establish communications between the Inquisition and the Chantry. Cullen was not entirely sure that would accomplish anything, but it was outside the realm of his expertise, and so he had thus far remained silent on the subject.

Until Josephine suddenly suggested that the Herald address the Clerics in person, per Mother Giselle’s advice.

Despite his protestations regarding the Herald’s safety and a heated argument on the issue, she ultimately agreed to go to Val Royeaux…with Cassandra’s accompaniment. Leliana, who had, up to this point, disagreed with his views on the handling of the Breach, sided with him in this particular matter; both he and the Nightingale thought it far too dangerous a situation for the Herald to show herself at the very heart of the Chantry’s power. That the Herald would be taking the Seeker and her companions with her was little comfort. As Leliana had rightfully pointed out, there would likely be an angry crowd waiting for them, stirred up by the rhetoric of the dissenting clerics.

But, as expected, there would be no dissuading either Cassandra or the Herald. Cullen shook his head and leaned against the war table as they filed out of the room ahead of him, with only Leliana lingering behind. He had half a mind to send a troop of soldiers with the party anyway to ensure their protection, but he knew it was useless – Cassandra wouldn’t have it.

 _Tempting fate_ … he thought as he drummed his fingers atop the table’s surface.

“I will be sending scouts ahead of them to assess the situation,” Leliana said quietly after the door closed behind Josephine. “If the condition of Val Royeaux seems too dangerous, I will let them know.”

Cullen snorted, “And if they ignore your warning? What then? We cannot afford to lose the Herald to this foolishness.”

“What would you have me do?” the Nightingale queried, mischief flashing in her eyes. “Knock them out with sleeping powders and drag them back here?”

“If necessary,” he smirked.

“You know Cassandra would hate us both for that.”

“The Seeker can be a little too stubborn for her own good.”

Leliana raised an eyebrow, “Like someone else we know?”

“ _Touché_ , Sister.”

It was the most light-hearted banter they had had in weeks. Leliana’s grieving for Divine Justinia had been particularly hard, and this was the first time in a long time that he had seen her truly jest with them. It was heartening to see her smile again, although he wondered how long this mood would last.

“There is something else I would like to speak with you about,” she said at length, half-sitting on the edge of the table next to him.

“And what is that?”

She sighed, glancing off as she shook her head. “I’ve been attempting to contact the Grey Wardens ever since the Breach was stabilized, but I can’t locate any of them. My sources tell me that there are no Wardens to be found in either Ferelden or Orlais, and I can’t shake the feeling that this…sudden disappearance on their part is somehow connected with the Conclave.”

His brow furrowed. “You think they were involved in the attack?”

Her lips thinned. “I don’t know. But the timing of this disappearance...I was hoping to be able to contact them to put my fears to rest, but now I worry even more that they have something to do with it all.”

Cullen straightened, resting his hands atop his sword’s pommel. “From what little I know of them and what you have told me from your own experiences, it doesn’t seem like they would have anything to gain by killing the Divine. Perhaps it is all coincidence.”

“Perhaps,” she nodded slowly. “The habits of the Wardens are always strange and mysterious to everyone else. But my gut tells me there’s something odd going on here.”

He sighed loudly. “First the Tevinters, now the Grey Wardens?” He immediately regretted the question, however, realizing all too late how critical it sounded.

Her eyes narrowed at him, and she was silent for several long moments. Then, ultimately, she huffed loudly and shook her head. “I _know_ what it looks like, Commander. I can’t help it. This isn’t just my desire for justice speaking. _Something_ is going on, and I _will_ get to the bottom of it.”

She then stormed from the war room, and the door slammed loudly behind her.

He let out his pent-up breath slowly. He shouldn’t have said that. But, for all the world, it looked like Leliana was searching desperately for someone – _anyone_ – to blame for Justinia’s death. So now, on top of investigating the rumors of Tevinter operatives in Ferelden, which had cost him an entire squad of soldiers, the Nightingale suspected the very order of warriors with which she had worked so closely during the Fifth Blight. Did she suspect the Queen of Ferelden, too? Or King Alistair?

He sighed again, wiping a hand down his face before gathering his reports and heading for the door. The Herald had been at the wrong place at the wrong time. Perhaps the Wardens had, too.

_Or perhaps this is all much more complicated than we thought…_


End file.
